Why I'm Thankful To Be Alive

My fourteenth summer twin funnels descended from the mildewed sky and barreled across the field behind our house. We didn't know it until after we'd watched the news, but they were the same funnels that obliterated the home a quarter of a mile from ours, killing its sole occupant -- a woman in her forties, named Tina -- and spewing insulation and siding across a fifty mile radius. When I was walking over the fields a few weeks later, I discovered a laminated index card with a recipe for corn casserole. In curly script the top read, "From Tina's Kitchen," and I realized how easily those twin funnels could've turned in our direction rather than hers.

On Tuesday of this past week, my fear of tornadoes heightened until it reached the level of that summer afternoon ten years ago. My sister-in-law and I were in the back of our store's warehouse, looking up prices for items, when the warehouse's garage-style door started shuddering beneath the power of lightening strikes and straight-line winds.

I said, "Maybe we should check it out." My sister-in-law nodded, and we walked out into the store. Our cashier was holding onto the double doors with all her might, but they were still whipping back and forth.

Fearing that Susan would be swept out into the storm, my sister-in-law cried, "Susan, let go of those doors!"

Our cashier immediately released them, and the double doors flung wide. A monsoon of water streaked sideways, and the wind howled like it had lost something. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood. My sister-in-law and I just stared at each other with huge, horrified eyes, then she quietly said, "Let's wait it out in your bathroom."

I nodded, and we took off running past the aisles, up the steps and through the office. Slinging open the apartment door, I gasped. Joanne came up behind me and did the same.

One of the two 6 x 8 window panes in my husband and my 1,100 square foot apartment had exploded, and glass -- acting like pieces of shrapnel -- had gouged the wood in our kitchen floor and table. The row of variegated plants below this window had been decapitated by the glass shards or at least mortally wounded. Their chopped leaves had been blown as far as the glass shards (the latter were discovered beneath our office door), and the few seconds we stood there, surveying the damage, felt like we were standing in the eye of a hurricane. Rain lashed through the hole where glass used to be, fluttering the few blinds that had survived the blast, and the wind's power had forced up numerous tiles of the drop-down ceiling, exposing strands of pink insulation throughout the apartment.

As another gust of wind sprayed the floor with water and glass, I yelled at my sister-in-law, "We need to go to the store's bathroom!"

We charged out of that apartment like it was on fire. Joanne shouted out into the store, "Everybody needs to go up to the store's bathroom--now!"

Our dear cashier hoofed it up the ramp along with two moms and their passel of children. All eleven of us crammed into our public bathroom. One curly-headed little girl sat on the closed toilet seat and swung her chubby legs. The children weren't alarmed at all and neither were their mothers. But they hadn't seen our apartment, and I was secretly wondering if our store still had a roof.

I called my husband's cell phone. Making sure to keep my expression and tone neutral for the children's sake, I said, "Honey, where should we be during a tornado? Would the store's bathroom be a safe place?"

Those are certainly not the words you want to hear from your spouse, but Randy reassured me that I had chosen correctly. When I explained about the window, he asked if both 6 x 8 panes were broken or just one because he would need to get plywood to cover the area up. I told him I would check.

Mashing the phone against my ear, I exited the bathroom, sprinted through the store and up into the apartment. I picked my way over the carpet, which sparkled like it was embroidered with glass. I had just made it into the kitchen when a piece of glass toppled off of the broken window and splintered across the floor.

Up until this point I'd kept my head, but now I let out a blood-curdling scream...right into the cell phone.

My husband screamed in return, "Get out of that glass!" Then, more gently, "Did you cut yourself?"

"No, it just scared me."

Sighing, he said, "Don't try to clean anything up. I'll be there soon."

Being the obedient wife I am, ten minutes later I was scooping up glass shards with a shovel and dumping them into an industrial-sized trashcan. The mess was worse than I'd thought. Not only was the wood floor and carpet saturated with water, but dirt from the planters had splattered across the counter tops, walls, and founds its way into the cupboards, fridge, and even the microwave.

I invited our cashier up to survey the damage. "Well, Lawd!" she exclaimed, hands on her hips. "If you woulda been up here, you woulda been cut in two!"

Grimacing at that image, I just nodded. Once she left, I sat down on the couch where I sit everyday to type on my laptop and found that it was also speckled with glass.

My husband returned a few minutes later with plywood for the window. When he saw the damage, he didn't say anything, but while we were moving the couch to the side so we could vacuum behind it, he looked up at me and quietly said, "I'm just glad you weren't here."

"Me too," I whispered.

That evening, as we continued to mop up the water and vacuum up the glass and dirt, I recalled how I had stood in a field ten years ago while holding a dead woman's recipe in my hands, and I realized -- for the second time in my twenty-four years -- how very blessed I am to still be alive.

Wading Through Troubled Waters

Winter 2006

The picture was taken during our trip out West. I was fifteen, and my best friend Misty eighteen. It was taken the same day we thought we were going to drown. Our backdrop is my family’s ancient, dust-crusted, black conversion van. Our arms are folded with my shoulder tucked beneath her own. Our faces are frozen in the moment between attempted sultriness and uncontainable mirth. Misty’s face is shadowed by the brim of her Cody, Wyoming cowboy hat she bought at the rodeo the night before. The pucker of her pout is the only thing truly perceived. I am wedged into Wranglers I have owned before I knew puberty was even a word--apparently, I do not care to breathe.

Our cowgirl gear makes us adventurous; our bravado like a rodeo clown’s dodging the horns of a thrashing bull. For the past five days, our eyes have been drawn to the crater-like mountains that arch over us with as much mystery as the dark side of the moon. The only thing that lies in the way of our Lewis and Clark exploration is a seething river that slices through the untamed terrain. With my parents and younger brother in town, we are deafened to all rationality by our clanging excitement. We pick our way down to the river and realize we’ve got company. A lone cowboy from a distant ranch with a name I cannot remember and a camel-like face I cannot forget, reassures us in a low twang, “If anything goes wrong with you girls, I’ll fish ya out for sure.”

With this, we are encouraged to begin. Clasping hands, we solemnly nod before wading into the depths of the Grey Bull River. After only three steps, the water sloshes against our thighs, wobbling our weight as our feet strive to find placement on the smooth stones. Misty moves in front, each step taken on slow shutter speed. My fear heightens as the water rises and pounds against my thundering heart. Each step I take, I am sure will be the one that sweeps me downstream as if I am nothing more than a leaf.

Without turning, I yell to the cowboy, “You can swim, right?”

His long pause causes me to angle my head to watch him out of my peripheral vision. He takes off his battered hat and scratches his scalp with dirty nails. “Well, I can’t say I can swim, but I can come getch ya if ya need it.”

Misty and I stand stock still. The water growls as it surges around us. Misty glances behind her and our eyes lock. Fear glows there as if she is watching her life flutter by, carried by a current.

“Let’s go back.”

Her words are whipped into whispers, but I understand.

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, I turn around. My new Timberlands slide and shiver over the rocks. My mind and body feel numb. The cowboy squats stupidly on the bolder-speckled shore, picking his teeth with a piece of straw. I glance behind me to watch Misty’s progress. She moves with as much trepidation as I do. I begin begging the Lord to let us live to a ripe old age. I pray that He’ll let us sit on white-washed rockers on our front porch, sipping tea while we fondly reminisce about these adventures instead of joining Him early because of them.

Unable to find my footing, I falter and clatter over the stones. Suddenly, Misty is there, her palm against my spine, buoying me up, giving me the strength to continue. She holds me up, yet I give her something to lean on. Together, we make it across the treacherous torrent and collapse onto the shore.


Spring 2006

Misty swerves across four lanes of Nashville traffic, her green Honda lurching over the hump in the concrete. She moves forward to park but shifts into reverse after reading the “For Patients Only” sign.

“I don’t want to park here...at least for today,” she quips.

I try to smile, but find it difficult. My hands are shaking as I unfasten my seatbelt and grab my purse. A shuttle for chemotherapy patients careens to a stop in front of the American Cancer Society entrance.

The driver is smoking.

Inside, a glass partition separates one department from another, hiding nothing of what is transpiring within. Rows of patients with shadow-rimmed eyes and gaunt cheeks sip carbonated beverages while poison seeps into their bloodstream. They flip through magazines and watch daytime soaps until the cresting waves of nausea overwhelm them with as much force as a tsunami.

It is then that I must turn away.

I stand close to Misty to feel her radiating warmth, to know she is still there. She asks the nurse, “May we look at the wigs, please?”

Like a hostess leading us to our table, the nurse smiles and chatters while maneuvering us through the corridor. The colors are mauve and cream, the lighting low. There are no pictures on the walls. Maybe the patients would become bitter if their time here appeared normal when it so obviously is not.

The nurse makes a sudden shift to the left, wedging her key into the lock. She twists the knob and thrusts it open with an ample hip. For but a moment her slice of smile falters as Misty and I file inside. She glances between the two of us, calculating who appears the healthiest. I feel like shouting, “If you knew her before you could tell!” I feel angry but I don’t know to whom I should direct my anger. My best friend’s twenty-three and has been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Those are things that happen to characters in Nicholas Sparks books and Lifetime movie heroines, not to your best friend who's more like your sister.

Misty can sense the nurse’s embarrassed stare. She raises a hand as if she knows the answer to the question the teacher does not want to ask. “I am the one with cancer.”

The nurse nods, her brown eyes melting in tears. “You’re so young,” she whispers. It is too much. I turn to my right and grip the back of the salon-style chair.

“It’s okay,” Misty soothes.

Patting the cushioned seat, the nurse says, “Come here, then.” Misty plops into it and spins around to face the mirror. The nurse runs her fingers through Misty’s thinning red hair.

“It is such an unusual color,” she states more to herself than anyone. “Such a shade may be hard to find.”

“It’s all right,” Misty chuckles. “I’ve always wanted to be a blond.”

I laugh with her, in nervousness more than anything, “We’d look like sisters for real, then.”

The nurse opens the white double doors to the cabinet and takes down three decapitated mannequins with hair in shades of strawberry blond not resting within God’s color spectrum. The nurse peels the monstrosity from the mannequin’s foam head and tenderly places it over Misty’s hair. The wig’s Doris Day cut and Lucille Ball color cause me to smile despite it all.

“Whatdaya think?” Misty asks, puckering her lips and raising a pale eyebrow.

“Beautiful,” I retort before we both bathe in the healing Balm of Gilead. Laughter.


Fall 2007

Today, I again sort through my pictures and spread them across the carpet. I smile as I watch these shards of my life falling into place, a mosaic of beauty. There is a new one amid the pile. It is right above the one of Misty and me with our backs to the camera as we sit on the wave-lapped shore of Lake Ontario. The sepia-toned print was taken during our trip to Land Between the Lakes the week before I returned to college for my junior year.

Loading my Jeep with camping supplies and jugs of water, we roll down the windows and prop open the sunroof, letting the wind tease our hair and our laughter. On the dashboard with her slender piano fingers, Misty thumps out the syncopated rhythm to the Last of the Mohicans soundtrack, number nine. We talk of our dream backpacking trip to Ireland, try to answer the question regarding who will be our husbands, imagine one day becoming neighbors who live on vast acres of land with waterfalls and who share sucanat instead of sugar.

But we do not talk of cancer.

We glide down deserted, pebble-layered roads. A nimble deer leaps in front of my car with the fluidity of a dancer. Yellow birds swoop and dive, making us feel as if we are in a tropical paradise rather than Western Kentucky. Once we arrive at Piney Campground, we unpack our things and lace up our hiking boots. Journeying deeper and deeper into the pulsing heart of the forest, sweat nestles against our spines and our feet begin to burn. A red-tailed hawk spreads its mottled wings and soars. It is enough to make you cry.

The trail curves and opens to reveal a sun-seared, shimmering lake. Crawling down a lip of earth, we toss our backpacks to the side. With our backs to the lake and the shifting sun, we pause a moment and Misty holds the camera. We angle our baseball caps so that my sweaty, freckled face can be pressed against her own. Misty wraps a strong arm around my back. She is there holding me up, and yet, I am offering her something to lean on. Once again we have traversed the treacherous torrent and made it to shore. With this knowledge, we smile with every fiber of our being -- threaded together as best friends, almost sisters -- the way it was meant to be.

She then snaps the picture.

This picture was taken three weeks ago during my trip to England, Scotland, and Ireland with my best friend, Misty Brianne Boyd, who's been cancer-free for over three years.

Folk Matter; They Really, Really Do

At first it seemed my UK adventure had accomplished everything I had hoped it would: I no longer obsessively checked my email to see if my beta readers had contacted me with feedback on my novel; I didn't even care to check my Facebook or Twitter accounts, but just uploaded everything in the morning and let the tweets scroll on by. Whenever customers would corner me in the store to chat, I didn't offer them a fake smile and a, "Nice to see ya," while slowly slinking back into the office. For the first time in a long time, I truly wanted to visit with them, to see what vegetables had been planted and what grandchildren had been birthed in the two weeks since I'd been gone.

Then, slowly but surely, the post-adventure euphoria wore off, and Life crept back in. Laundry, tossed into the nest of a hamper, started multiplying like rabbits. Ants began marching across my kitchen floor with all the pomp of The Rose Bowl Parade. I started researching (and, okay, I couldn't help it) writing a new novel. My husband informed me that I needed to pick out cabinet knobs, light fixtures, backerboard trim (?), and tile for our house. Our store also needed some extra TLC since our main employee, my amazing sister-in-law, has been out of town.

So, I gritted my teeth and bore it. I jammed laundry in all shades of the rainbow into the washing machine (it's not your fault, Mom; you taught me better); I attacked the ants with Clorox wipes and an I'll-show-you! supply of elbow grease; I spent all day Saturday in a stifling warehouse, purchasing items for our store from a business that was closing down theirs.

Without realizing it, I had allowed myself to get drawn back into the rat race of the daily grind, and my love for people -- my patience for people -- was getting devoured in the process.

That is, until a visitor clomped up the stairs into my office and changed everything; a visitor unlike any I have ever known before.

•  

Renea Winchester, author of the memoir, In the Garden with Billy, had her life changed when she had a visitor of her own. Actually, the person she met on that hot summer day in 2008 wasn't a visitor at all. Billy Albertson had been living in those Atlanta suburbs long before every property in the area was "three-stories, covered in three-side-brick, with a three hundred thousand dollar price tag."

But Renea was too busy to stop by the '60s-style rancher that sold different goods according to the season and meet its seventy-seven-year-old proprietor. Every weekend she was driving four hours to North Carolina to tend her mother "whose ovarian cancer had returned with a vengeance," and she did this in addition to being a Mission Leader during vacation Bible school and taxiing her daughter to and from various summer activities.

So when Renea's daughter, Jamie, begged to stop at the '60s-style rancher and look at the goats described in the "Goats 4 Sale" sign, Renea was exhausted but eventually gave in. Pulling into the yard and parking, Renea and Jamie walked beneath a carport and saw the vision of Billy Albertson:

"[He] wore pale blue overalls patched at the knee. Unbuttoned shirtsleeves flapped as he sped across the carport with a stooped-over gait that was a combination sygoggle shuffle and lope. A frayed hat shielded his face from the sun. Bent pieces of straw had unraveled from the brim and cast haphazard shadows across his cheeks."

If Billy Albertson reads just like a character, that's because he is one, and Renea -- who offered to help Billy in his garden several times a week -- discovered this very soon after their unique friendship began. If he wasn’t fixing his truck engine with a few wallops of a two-headed hammer, he was working circles around Renea who, with a nickname like “Zippy,” should’ve been able to keep up with a man thirty-five years her senior but this was not your typical seventy-seven-year-old man.

Not only did working alongside Billy teach Renea the benefits of a simpler, stress-free life, but he also taught her about the "honer system" (“I like to trust people, and I believe people like to be trusted”), and how true love has the power to withstand anything--even Alzheimer's, even death.

But the best lesson Renea ever learned from Billy was as simple as the man from which it came: “Folk matter."

•  

When that visitor clomped up the steps into my office, “folk matter" was certainly not the first thought that came to mind. All I was aware of was that my visitor smelled; that his eyes were a painful, pinkish red, and whenever he made his unnatural noises, spittle sprayed from his contorted mouth.

The boy -- he could've only been eleven or twelve -- gestured toward the door that led from the office into our apartment.

I shook my head and said, "No, No," as firmly as I could, but this did not deter him. Giving me a defiant grin, he lurched toward the door and turned the knob. He walked into our apartment, as calmly as you please, and I found myself in a quandary: I did not want to follow an eleven or twelve-year-old boy into our apartment because I didn't think his parents would appreciate that, but neither did I want that boy to go into our kitchen and find the knives.

I yelled down at our cashier, "Susan! You know where this boy's mother is?"

She shook her head, but the mother must've overheard this, for she hollered, "Aar-ron! C'mon, now, son…getch yourself on over here."

Glancing around at the apartment, he said, "Wow” (it probably seemed like Narnia after coming up from a grocery store), then walked back into the office and took my hand.

I was startled at first, because of the gesture, but also because this child's hand was far larger than my own. Tugging on my hand, he led me down the steps into the store and walked me over to his mother as if for her inspection.

I waved and smiled to let her know that everything was all right, told Aaron goodbye and went back up into the office.

He followed two minutes later.

I was replying to some emails and he pointed to the computer screen, then pointed at me.

"Yes, yes," I said. "I'm typing."

He grunted and watched for a bit. Stumbling over, he put his hand over mine, pressed down hard, and scribbled the mouse all over the desk.

Dropping my hand, the boy came over and put his arms around my neck. I tried to remain calm, but he really did smell quite bad and the noises he was roaring into my ear were punctuated with spittle. I was just about to call for help when the boy's mother hollered (there's no other word for it) for him to "come down ’ere or else."

The boy squeezed me into an awkward hug, then gave my neck a sloppy kiss. He was plodding down the office steps when he suddenly stopped and turned around. I was bracing myself for who knew what, but the boy just held out his fisted knuckles.

I started to smile as it dawned on me what he wanted. Seeing this, the boy smiled, too. It transformed his whole face, and I saw that his eyes beneath the pinkish tinge were a dark, chocolatey brown.

Holding up my hand and making a fist, I brushed my knuckles against his. His grin widened, and he switched hands. I brushed my knuckles against his other set, then he waved, clunked down the steps and rejoined his mother.

I sat there -- it must've been five minutes, at least -- without answering an email or scheduling a tweet. All I could do was picture that child who was living the simplest of lives, yet a fulfilled, stress-free one; and I realized that I shouldn't feel sorry for him, for he was the one who had shown me with a hug, with a sloppy kiss, with a brushing of his knuckles against mine the same lesson that Billy Albertson had taught:

Folk matter; they really, really do.

•  

To learn more about Renea Winchester, author of In the Garden With Billy: Lessons on Life, Love & Tomatoes, click here or here.

As always, thanks for reading!

Jolina

A Snapshot of My Trip to England, Scotland, and Ireland

No Place Like Home

Our plane, en route to JFK airport, lost its weather radar and had to make an emergency landing in Detroit. Though no oxygen masks were deployed from the ceiling and no cheery attendants herded us through the side exits like chattel, it was still unnerving. That night we stayed in a hotel, washed our unmentionables in the sink, ate whatever food our miserly vouchers could cover (which was pretty much toast and tap water), and the next afternoon boarded another flight to JFK, then our destination: London-Heathrow.

Upon landing in London, my two friends and I stumbled beneath the weight of our cumbersome backpacks and equally hefty jet-lag. Somehow we managed to travel from airport to train, then find the flat where we were to stay for the next four nights. My friend took a video of me weaving up the early morning -- and therefore deserted -- street. A plastic sack had wrapped itself around my right foot, but I was too tired to remove it. For a few yards I continued to shuffle along in my travel-weary clothes, greasy face and hair, and attached plastic sack. Watching that video now, it really is surprising that no one threw a few pounds at my feet out of sheer compassion, which would've come in handy considering the exchange rate.

After spending the night under a chair at an all-night prayer meeting (thank goodness for ear plugs), our one friend chose to stay at the flat to catch up on rest while my other friend and I ventured into the city. You must understand, I hadn't slept more than six hours in 48, and when those subway doors slammed in front of me -- separating me from my American friends in a country that felt more foreign with every "biscuit" for "cookie" utterance -- I plastered myself against the window and beat it with both hands.

I'm pretty sure I would've hurtled myself along with the subway if my friend (who'd lived in London for over a year and knew the ropes) hadn't hit the button that made the doors open, and I lurched inside with a face redder than a beet. A few stations later, when the conductor said, "Oil change," I asked my ex-patriot friend: "Why does an electric subway need an oil change?"

My friend just looked at me a moment, then -- after the conductor repeated this phrase -- realized my confusion. "He's not saying, 'Oil change.' He's saying, 'All change.' This is the train's last destination. We all must change to a new one."

Southern accents do not translate well overseas.

For the next three days, because my friends and I were trying to travel as cheaply as possible, we ate peanut butter or tuna sandwiches and whenever we came upon free food, gorged ourselves sick whether we had an appetite or not. I started to feel slightly like a camel, and since my hygiene had taken a hit due to all those 3.5 oz. liquid restrictions, I probably smelled as bad as one, too.

Eight days and our three bodies some 20 pounds lighter, we left London for the country. When I blew my nose and the white tissue was not stained black with soot, I almost clicked my heels like Billy Elliot. When our hosts presented us with a hot meal, a cheese course and tea, two desserts (I ate both), then tucked us in between 400 count cotton sheets, I almost sobbed into their down feather pillow.

The rest of the week was something from a Jane Austen novel. We toured glorious manor houses, took a punt (similar to a gondola) down the river bordering Cambridge, explored Shakespeare's home and exquisite garden, had cream tea and scones in the Cotswolds, packed on the weight we had lost in London, and took leisurely strolls around the lake at twilight.

During our eight hour bus trip from Milton Keynes to Edinburgh, Scotland, I sat next to an Australian who had red hair splotched with black like a confused cheetah. He was going to Edinburgh for a bike race and his nickname was Barbeque.

"Why Barbecue?" I asked.

He grinned, then said, "I was taking some shots of absinthe that we'd lit on fire. By the fourth, I drank it before the fire went out and burnt up my head. It's a good thing I'd just shaved off my hair."

Before we disembarked, Barbeque revealed that he'd been in and out of jail 15 times for "brawling" and had another nickname -- Chuck Norris -- which he'd been dubbed because of his red mustache and his powerful roundhouse kick to a place I would rather not repeat.

(It's probably a good thing I didn't learn this at the beginning of the journey, or I probably would've switched seat partners.)

Over the next two days, I buckdanced on the Royal Mile, explored a medieval castle complete with a musty dungeon, climbed Arthur's Seat--a Scottish "lowland" that was so wind-whipped, I had to zip up my jacket or risk getting swept over the craggy mountain and sailing to my death.

It seemed I was just getting accustomed to Scotland when it was time to leave for Ireland. Once our plane had touched tarmac, we walked down the streets of Belfast (apparently, this is a tourist "no-no"), then boarded a train bound for Dublin. A few hours later, we were picked up at the station by our hosts--or, to put it more precisely, by our hosts' son: a 30-something man who'd obviously been looking forward to our arrival for quite some time. We went back to their huge, rambling home that had been passed down from generation to generation, then had tea and biscuits while overlooking the flower garden.

Wanting to take advantage of the little time I had left, the following morning my friend and I packed a picnic lunch and hiked along the Irish Coast. Out of everything I had seen, this was truly the most beautiful. The gravel path eventually gave way to a dirt trail hemmed in by a stone wall embroidered with ivy. Cobalt water lapped against the black shoals below. At one point, when we stopped for a breather, I spotted the smooth, dark head of a seal. Five miles later, the trail cracked open to a coastal village. My friend and I explored it a little, then stopped for some gelato cones, which we licked on our journey back.

Because this glorious day was my last, I didn't want to leave. We cooked a meal for our hosts, then sat and sipped herbal tea while (once again) overlooking the flower garden. I then went upstairs to repack and shower. While I was in the bathroom, our hosts' gray cat started scratching at the window while glaring at me with glittering green eyes. My hostess had informed me that this window was how the cat "got in and out," and that it should never, ever be closed. Well, it was obviously closed now, so I let the cat in, then shut the window because of the fearsome cold. A few minutes later I went downstairs to ask my friend a question and was met by the short, seventy-year-old host with an irate disposition.

"Did you let the cat in the window?" he asked, his brogue as thick as his girth.

I nodded.

"Well, don't you let it in again! I'm sorry, but don't you let it in again! Mary doesn't like cats."

I just nodded, asked my friend the question, then tiptoed back upstairs.

All of a sudden, I was ready to go home.

The next morning I awoke at 4:45 a.m., boarded a bus for Dublin, then my flight to London. Eleven hours later, my plane touched down in Atlanta, and I rushed to customs. For some reason, the visitor line was far longer than the permanent resident one. My flight was boarding by the time I made it through. Wearing my 25 pound backpack, I zigzagged in and out of the crowd and dashed toward the gates. Sweat was trickling down my back when I'd reached the proper one, but there was no need to hurry.

My flight had been delayed an hour.

One hour later, the flight had been delayed another hour. This pattern continued until the flight was canceled completely. A woman who had been on the flight with me from London asked if we should rent a car and drive to Nashville. I didn't think that would be wise considering the fact we hadn't slept in over 24 hours, and this woman looked like she was on the brink of a nervous breakdown already.

The tiny woman behind the booth announced that we were all being rebooked on the 10:50 flight. This didn't make sense since there were over 70 of us, and this flight was almost full. The woman directed us to a booth that would print out our boarding passes. The woman who wanted to rent a car with me waved her boarding pass in my face and said, "This isn't a boarding pass! It's a hotel and meal vouch-er! They're gonna make us spend the night!"

A dark-skinned woman came up to me and quietly said, "If you'll just go over there and print out your boarding pass, you won't have to stand in this line."

I think she was an angel.

Once I did as she'd suggested, I was shocked to see that my flight voucher was set for 9:00 that evening, not 10:50 like the rest. I had 10 minutes to make it to the other terminal. I'm telling you, adrenaline's a pretty amazing thing. I wove in and out of crowds, up and down escalators on no sleep, three cups of coffee, and a year's worth of carbonhydrates. When I finally arrived at the gate, they scanned my boarding pass voucher and waved me through.

It was that simple, and I was the last person to fill a seat.

At 10:30 my plane touched down in Nashville. For two whole weeks I'd been rehearsing my husband and my reunion. I would be wearing a flowing red gown. I'd have on some flashy red lipstick and stilettos to match. Perhaps some beaded jewelry I'd picked up while "abroad." I'd carry with me a worldly air that those that have traveled seem to assume as soon as their passport's been stamped with something other than Canada.

None of these things happened. I was currently wearing American Eagle jeans and a Cambridge sweatshirt that -- when purchasing -- had made me feel very intelligent, but was now wrinkled and stained with greasy airline food and 27 hours' worth of sweat. My hair was an oil slick, as was my face. My teeth were filmy, my legs as unshaved as my Mennonite ancestors'.

Then, matters got even worse. My husband couldn't come in the gates to sweep me off my feet and swing me around while smattering my greasy face with kisses. He would have been able to do that three hours ago, but he'd moved out of temporary parking when he knew my flight was delayed.

"Honey," he asked after calling my cell phone, "you mind if I pick you up at the curb?"

Well, wasn't that romantic! I guess I should feel grateful that he was going to put on the brake and not make me jump in through the window like a circus performer!

"Sure. That'll be fine," I tersely replied.

So, I lumbered out of the airport and plopped my bulk on a concrete bench. Ten minutes passed. My husband's white Jeep was nowhere to be found.

"Where are you?" I called and asked, like he'd just jetted off to Aruba on a red-eye.

"I think you're on the wrong level. Just come up the escalator. I'll be outside."

Nuh-huh! This was far too much! Here was the girl who was so optimistic during the airport delays that she was almost mutinized by her fellow passengers, about to burst into tears because she had to use an escalator!

"I am done with this traveling stuff!" I roared into the receiver. "Done, I tell you!"

Being the wise man that he is, my husband didn't say anything but just waited for me to get up the escalator and make my way out to the curb.

And there he was.

With the visage of him, every airport delay and rerouting, every peanut butter or tuna sandwich I'd consumed, every piece of jet-lag I'd toted around for two weeks along with my enormous backpack, every cultural confusion and traveling frustration disappeared.

Stepping into my husband's waiting arms, I forgot all about Buckingham Palace, the Cotswolds, the Royal Mile, and the Irish Coast.

All I wanted was to be home, for there was no other place in the world I would rather be.