Except for the $5 snack boxes on Delta Airlines featuring dried apricots, there is really nothing I like about flying. If there weren’t grandchildren at the other end of flying, I would never get into that claustrophobic tube of terror.
Over the years as my children have left me and settled themselves in faraway places, I have carefully crafted a set of circumstances that allow me to swallow my fear and take that final step into the plane as the pilot welcomes me into his lair. Resisting the urge to grab him (they have always been men, so far) by the lapels and tearfully beg him to keep the plane in the sky until the moment he safely deposits me on the beloved terra firma again, I gather my security items and rituals about me.
I always have some good chocolate like Dove or Ghirardelli in my pocketbook because if I’m hurtling through space towards a mountain, I’m going down with a mouthful of chocolate. I always order Fresca to drink because it reminds me of high school and being young and all that goes with that. I always remember to take my anti-anxiety medication because, well, although I buried that at the end of the paragraph, that probably helps more than the chocolate or Fresca.
Then I am always sure I make reservations in enough time to get an aisle seat. I had a panic attack the last time I was in a middle seat, so an aisle seat gives me some control over my environment and makes fewer people I have to trample to get to the emergency exit as I take my last drink of Fresca and stuff my mouth with chocolate. You must admit, I have put a lot of thought into this.
A Changed Seat. Oh No!
And that is precisely why I got anxious two weeks ago when my plane was changed on my flight to Utah and I wound up with a middle seat.
“No way, Mom,” my son, who had made my reservations, said when I called him a little panicky. “Go to the counter and get it changed.”
So I showed up alone at an airport again to face my fears, only with less control than I usually have.
I’ve always wondered what my blood pressure is as I enter the terminal. I struggle to have faith that I will be safe and even if I’m not, that’s OK too. Isn’t that what faith is, or should be? Then I look at all the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people and wonder how God can love all these people and hear everyone’s prayers when selfishly I really only care at that point that He hears mine. After all, I’m praying pretty loudly in my mind.
So I tentatively approached the counter at the gate, humbly explained how my seat had been changed through no fault of my own, and threw myself upon the mercy of the all-powerful check-in attendant to see if my seat could be changed on the next leg of my journey.
“Nope. The plane’s full,” she said, not even looking up at me. If she had looked up at me, there was no way she could have refused my pitiful face.
I swallowed my Valium, got on the plane, ordered my Fresca, and ate a couple of Doves for good luck, all the while praying that a way would be opened that my seat could be changed in Minneapolis.
Needing a Way Opened
I used to keep a quote of Pres. Hinckley’s on my computer at work that has helped me many times. Paraphrased, it reads, “Obey the commandments and walk in faith, and a way will be opened that you didn’t think was possible.” (If anyone knows the exact quote, please email me. I haven’t been able to find it.)
I prayed, I begged, I pleaded all the way across the country. I think it was more desperation than faith, but in my life unfortunately those lines are sometimes blurred. Even though I’ve often wondered if God really knows I’m there on those planes, I was hoping He did. In a stretch of faith, I figured I had to be closer to heaven than when I was on the ground.
When we reached Minneapolis, I had about 25 minutes to find a tram and get to my gate that looked like a long way away on the map. I prayed all the way, wondering how in the world God could open a way to an aisle seat. I didn’t really want anyone to have to die to leave an aisle seat vacant. Really.
I finally reached the gate, a bit breathless, as passengers began to board the full plane that couldn’t possibly have extra seats. And then I heard my name being called out over the loudspeaker.
“Susan Elzey, please come to the counter. Susan Elzey, please come to the counter.”
My heart leaped up. I expected to hear, “Your prayers have been heard, and someone has offered you their seat.”
Almost.
A family wanted to sit together, and my seat was in the way.
“Would you be willing to change seats so a family could sit together?” the counter attendant asked.
Magnanimously, I said, “If I can have an aisle seat.” (OK, so that wasn’t too charitable.)
She typed away, ripped a boarding pass out, slammed it down, and said, “No, that won’t work.” I waited. She repeated the process two more times until finally slamming one down and saying, “Here’s your aisle seat.”
If Zone 3 hadn’t already been boarding, I would have been tempted to grab the microphone from her and announce to all in the terminal that, yes, God does dwell even in scary places like airports and hears even the insignificant prayers of a person who tries to substitute faith with Fresca and chocolate.
And, yes, ways can be opened when it doesn’t possibly seem like a way can be opened.
And, yes, I won’t ever be afraid to fly again.
Just kidding on that one.
Don’t leave home without . . .
As an addendum, as I headed home from Salt Lake City, we sat on the tarmac for a half an hour and then had to return to the gate for maintenance on an overhead compartment that wouldn’t close. I remarked to my seatmate that I should have brought my duct tape.
We returned to the gate and, guess what, the maintenance crew brought on a big roll of the aforementioned duct tape and proceeded to tape the compartment shut.
The way my mind works on planes, I thought, “Thank goodness the problem wasn’t a loose wing.”
I’m adding duct tape to my list of security items.