A Series of Kindnesses

San Juan Islands, Washington, USA

“You’re late?”

“So late,” I admitted apologetically.

The woman narrowed her eyes in determination. “Come.” She beckoned.

Before I’d even come to a stop, she swooped my carry-on up and onto the conveyer belt. She reached for my shoes as I slipped out of them, tossing them into a bin and then handing me another one for my laptop bag, before helping my sister pull her laptop from her backpack.

Hers wasn’t the first kindness of a stranger that sheltered me earlier this week as I traveled to my hometown to celebrate the life of a dear friend. I told you a little about Margarette in my last post—all heart and flowing fiery locks, a laugh and an opera-trained singing voice that could fill a room or a heart. A fierceness like shelter.

My sisters and I arranged to leave together from the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on two different flights between the three of us and my bubbling one-year-old niece. As I’m want to do, especially in times of stress, I’d squeezed task after task into the days leading up to the flight. I’d sit atop the unwieldy evenings, cramming odds and ends into bulging sides before at last zipping them to a tentative close only after the moon had half completed its sultry slip across the indigo sky.

The last hour before leaving was booked for van prep. Ruby van Jangles, beloved as she is, is not without her quirks. One is a leak at the rear part of the roof—over my bed. Various repairs have met varying degrees of success over the years. During the throes of my most valiant efforts, I dug out a decade worth of sediment, unloading clumps of organic matter preserved in thick, tar-like sealant; sanded away as much of the rust as I could; rebuilt the rain gutter using steel epoxy like play dough; and added a layer of rust protectant spray. That initially did the job. One point of entry, though, eventually resisted my handywoman prowess (the prowess evidenced by the finger-shaped ruffles in parts of the new rain gutter). So, a ruby-red tarp cut into a rectangle and affixed with magnets and duct tape became the newest “repair.” And while it does the job, it had recently come loose. Fixing it had been pushed to the bottom of the to-do list by days of endless sunshine. Now, rain loomed on the horizon.

Just as the clock marked the pre-departure hour, a pipe in the cloud cover over my sister’s driveway where Ruby sat burst. It was the kind of downpour my kid brother once stripped down and showered in in the front yard (to my mother’s chagrin); the kind I watched in awe out Ruby’s window in Seward, Alaska, as sky and horizon became one, all silver and pewter and magic; (the kind I hadn’t seen in these parts since the day, in this same driveway, I’d cut a fourteen-inch-by-fourteen-inch hole in Ruby’s roof to install a fan. But that’s a different undertaking, saved by a different tarp.) By the time I got my suitcase and laptop bag from Ruby’s belly and into my sister’s garage and toweled them off, my pillow was damp, a tiny stream was trickling down the inside of the window above the bed, and droplets of water ran down my face. Instead of cutting a new rectangle, I borrowed a tarp from the garage, gathered a stepping stool and some magnets, and fought the tarp into place.

I watered the plants that live on Ruby’s windowsill, removed the wet pillowcase and hung it in the window, and dried the mattress as best I could. In the car, my brother-in-law navigated packed, end-of-day Seattle traffic. Why, we asked ourselves, were we pushing it so late? Grieving hearts are difficult to keep in sorts. We watched the map app suddenly change our arrival time to minutes after boarding, a 47-minute delay up ahead. Visions of the infamously crammed SEA-TAC widened our eyes. My brother-in-law jumped on the express lane, and soon, we’d made up twelve minutes. “We’ll run,” we assured each other. “We’ll make it.”

The express lane ended. A few minutes of our gain disappeared like the mist the rain had become. Now in crawling traffic, we were soon back to the post-boarding arrival. My sister’s eyes locked on mine, and we nodded in shared defeat.

With a sigh, I dialed the airline. Patient and helpful, the attendant wasn’t overly hopeful of our chances. There were three alternative flights—a triple-layover red-eye for what would otherwise be a two-hour flight, one that left so close to the original time we might not make it either and would pay a change fee twice, and one the next day. If we missed the original flight and were marked no shows, whichever of the three we chose would be at full price. Ever hopeful, I hung up and willed the map app to predict an earlier arrival.

When we lost another handful of minutes, I made a second call. “I guess we’ll take the flight in the morning,” I said reluctantly.

“I wouldn’t risk it at that airport,” said the attendant, whose hub was in rural Idaho. “Maybe here. But not SEA-TAC.”

At least the youngest of us, along with her baby, would make their flight, an hour later than ours—probably.

Just as I hung up, the traffic cleared. The sun came out. We climbed to freeway speed and navigated into a departure lane whose emptiness befitted a small, middle-of-nowhere airport, not the international hub we’d arrived at. The drop-off for our airline was first. “Stop,” I cried. “It’s not too late to fix this.”

Inside, I found an agent and babbled our predicament.

“You still have time,” she assured us warmly, upon ascertaining our departure time and that we had no bags to check. “Just run.”

“It’s just that we don’t have tickets anymore,” my sister explained.

“Oh.”

“We did like ten minutes ago, though,” I chimed in.

She considered. “I’ll get you to the gate,” she said. “You can try from there.”

In a tight triangle, her silky raven locks flowing at the helm, the three of us threaded our way through travelers and past long lines.

“You got this!” someone cried. Hoots of encouragement followed.

Near the end of a much shorter line than the others we passed, a woman ushered us in front of her. When movement stalled, she pointed to the front of the line. “You should go up and ask to jump in,” she suggested gently.

We stepped out of line and hesitantly made our way forward. That’s when the woman about to get her turn saw us and asked, “You’re late?”

Her assistance was followed by another mad dash.

“No worries,” the gate attendant beamed when we arrived at the counter out of breath. “We’re running a little late and haven’t even started boarding.”

“It’s just that we don’t have a ticket anymore,” my sister said.

“We did fifteen minutes ago, though,” I added.

She considered. “We’ll get you on,” she assured us.

Another attendant arrived, and they huddled. They worked their magic, and we were ticketed with time enough to breathe before boarding even started.

Peace Park, BC, Canada

Soaring above the clouds toward the place we needed to be, my sister and I “clinked” plastic glasses. We reminisced about years long passed and how impossible it felt to think of Margarette as gone. We talked about her children and husband and how we couldn’t wait to be with them. Dabbing at our eyes, we leaned back into our seats.

I looked out the window, smiling at the night sky surrounding us. “Can you believe we made this flight?”

We recounted all the people who’d stepped in to make that happen. “What a series of kindnesses,” my sister said. “It restores your faith in humanity a little bit.”

I would love to know. When was a time strangers showed up for you? What around you restores your faith in humanity?