Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time in airports. A lot of time. And more time than was originally designated for said time in airport.

Now, for those of you who don’t travel frequently this may not mean anything to you. But to anyone who lives on a time budget, carefully scheduled days, weeks, and even months, you might be able to relate to my latest saga.

To begin, I have to tell you how badly I need a day off. Not to shop. Not to have lunch with a friend. Not to grab a cup of coffee at my favorite cafe. No. I need a nap! A long, don’t bother me, I have nothing else to do and no where else to go, NAP. So I scheduled one.

The 2008 Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference, at which I was on faculty, was scheduled for mid-May 2008. As faculty, I was notified weeks in advance by World Travel Company who handled my flight arrangements. When would I like to arrive, they asked.

The notion of squeezing in a nap was formed. The conference begins on a Sunday, but faculty is invited to come in early on Saturday, have dinner together at a lovely restaurant called The Cellar Door in Black Mountain, and church together the next morning at the Rutland Chapel atop one of the rolling hills at Ridgecrest’s North Carolina Conference Center. I looked at the schedule. IF I opted to leave early (and I do mean early) Saturday morning–say, 7 or 8:00–I could land in Asheville, NC, get picked up by the shuttle crew, be driven to the conference center, get checked in, and be in my room and in my bed for the best nap of my life by 1:00. That would give me, according to the schedule, five hours to nap. Maybe take a long hot soak in the tub. Maybe read a little. Maybe nap a little more.

This was OH so do-able.

Right.

I left my home at 5:45 am, having been up since 4:30. Coffee cup in hand, I headed down the drive, around the bend, and toward MCO (Orlando International Airport–I know…it doesn’t match…don’t ask….). I parked my car at Park, Bark, and Fly, hopped in the shuttle, was driven to the airport, got checked in, headed to my gate, and proceeded to wait. Right on time, our flight began to board. I sat in my pre-assigned seat, pulled out a book I’m absolutely loving (Abraham, by Bruce Feiler), and began what I’d like to refer to as my “mini-vacation.”

Mini was the word for it. After the plane was filled with passengers the pilot announced there was a (and I quote) “mechanical problem” with the plane. He went on to elaborate. (I hate it when they do that!) Apparently the gasoline wasn’t getting to the second engine. “And,” said the pilot oh-so-cheerfully, “we kinda think it’s important for gas to get to the engine, so we’ll be at the gate for a little while waiting for a mechanic to come check it out.” His easy-going manner gave us passengers the impression it was a simple fix.

An hour later–maybe more–and I realized I was probably NOT going to make my connecting flight (Atlanta to Asheville). Oh, well. It is what it is. I have a good book, I’ll read. We finally took off and, at some point, the flight attendant requested that “IF Atlanta is your final destination please stay seated so those with connecting flights can deplane in a timely manner.”

Thank you.

I flew out of that plane faster than the 510 MPH the pilot said he was flying through the friendly skies. It was 10:35am. My next flight was to leave the airport at 10:35am. Unless I was Jeannie and could fold my arms and blink, I wasn’t going to make the flight. DRATS!

I ran to the first DELTA agent I saw. I told her my flight number and destination. She glanced at the board and said (oh so non-chalantly), “Go out this way, turn to your left, and then two gates over to the Delta Support Center. They’ll get you re-routed.”

So, I hopped on over to the Delta Support Center, dragging my carry-on behind me. Clackity-clack-clack. I stood in line. I stepped up one person after a few minutes, then one person more until FINALLY it was my turn. I handed the agent my ticket from ATL to Asheville so she could see for herself the plight of my lost flight. She gave me a sympathy look. Then she played with her keyboard, peering through her specs at the monitor. “Here’s what I can do,” she said. “We have a flight out tonight at 9:00 to Cinncinnati with a connecting flight to Asheville that should get you there by midnight.”

Excuse me?

“Do you have anything earlier?” I asked. (Apparently, she had not heard about my nap-plan. Nor, for that matter, my dinner plan.)

“I can book you for a 2:30 flight on stand-by.”

“Same destination?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“And that’s my choices? All of them?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” She really did look sympathetic.

“I guess I’ll take it.” I was taking it all in stride. After all, Atlanta’s airport has some pretty GREAT shopping. Nice restaurants. A good place to get my daily walking in. It wasn’t nap and a dinner at the Cellar Door, but it wasn’t death either.

The agent played with the keyboard for a minute more, then looked down at her watch. “Oh, honey!” she said. “Your plane is still at the gate. It was delayed. Hurry! Run! D-19.”

D-19??? I was in the A concourse. DO YOU KNOW ATLANTA HARTSFIELD’S LAYOUT????

I grabbed my carry-on and took off. I darted down the nearby escalator, not waiting for the stair to glide to the bottom but using it like a staircase instead. I ran to the underground train. I hopped on. I sped through to Concourse B. Concourse C. Concourse D. I popped out of the train, literally RAN up the escalator (”Excuse me…pardon me…excuse me…pardon me…”) whilst hoisting my carry-on which, I learned the hard way, weighed about a ton. At the top of the escalator, I turned right and checked to see if A-19 was close or down the way. It was down the way. WAY down the way. I took off running. I stopped after a few yards. Dear Lord have mercy! I am NOT as young as I used to be. I took off running again. My heart was pounding in my chest, my ears, on the floor…. I didn’t care. I had to make that flight!

I had to have my nap!!!!

But when I got to the gate I was told the hard cold facts. The flight had left 5 minutes ago. “We called your name repeatedly,” the agent said.

I drug myself back to the Delta Service Center in the A-Concourse where I was told to use the convienent black phone because the line was now several miles long. (I exaggerate, of course. It was only a mile long.)

A happy, chirpy phone agent informed me I could fly from Atlanta to Charlotte and then switch airlines in Charlotte and head on over to Asheville, arriving at 5:30. I reasoned it out. I could nap on the plane. I could eat lunch in Charlotte (great airport by the way). I would make it time for dinner at The Cellar Door. Okay. It wasn’t my original plan…but it wasn’t the end of the world, either.

“When does it leave?” I asked.

“In 30 minutes,” she answered. “So I need a yes or a no, right now.”

“Where is my luggage?” I asked. (I mean, after all….)

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I would expect it will arrive sometime today in Asheville.”

One can only hope.

I took the flight. I ran, again, to the gate. When I got there I was informed I’d forgotten to get the ticket from the counter agent. I didn’t know! I didn’t know! “Well,” said the new agent, “let me see your original ticket to Asheville and I’ll see what I can do.” I reached for it, fumbling through all my papers, etc. only to realize I’d left it with the ORIGINAL “mmm-hmmm” agent. OHMYGOSH!

The agent took pity on me and let me on the flight. After I showed her my ID, of course. And after I promised her a steak dinner was I ever in Atlanta’s airport again.

In Charlotte’s airport I was instructed to go to Concourse A. But in Concourse A I was told, no, I should be in Concourse E. (Another long, long trek.) Finally at my gate I was told I should have a green piece of paper to switch from Delta to U S Airways. I explained I had NO idea what they were talking about. But, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me on that little puddle jumper!

The agent picked up the phone to “check into it.” And I prayed. “Lord, WHY is this happening? Was it too much to ask to have a nap? A little five-hour nap? Maybe a hot bath? A long soak? Dinner with friends? Am I not deserving of even this little thing?” (Translated: whine, whine, whine.)

I got on the plane. Weary, but seated. I landed in Asheville and made it to the Cellar Door five minutes before the rest of my dining companions. I had a lovely dinner. I told my story at least three times, laughing all the way. And, I learned to my great joy, my luggage had made it on the original flight (without me!) and was sitting in my room…no doubt taking its own nap!Sure…it’s funny now….

Days later I was stunned to hear the news of Steven Curtis Chapman’s family tragedy. My editor from Thomas Nelson, Ramona Richards, gave me the news gently. She knows that a very close friend of the Chapman’s is a very close friend of mine and I would be concerned about both. As I left my editor’s embrace for the class I was about to teach, I thought about all involved. Surely they were–each one of them–crying out to God, asking, “WHY? WHY?”

Suddenly my plea of “why” sounded stupid. A nap was all I wanted. Stupid. To raise this child was all they wanted. Vital. Yet God had another plan.

For me. For them. For little Maria.

And a lesson was learned by a terminal junkie.

On my return flight, the one that had something “fall off the plane and onto the runway,” the one where I was told “we can get you out of here tonight but you’ll be stuck in Atlanta…unless you want us to put you up at the Holiday Inn down the road,” the one where I opted to spend one more night in Asheville and one less night at home, found me a calmer terminal junkie.

So what, I thought. I’ve missed another night at home. I’ve gained another night in a hotel. And I know my little one is tucked in, sound asleep, waiting for me to return.

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