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Hindsight
by Camerin Courtney
December 23, 2003
I never saw it coming. Maybe that was the problem.
The fun, cute guy who sat next to me on a recent plane trip seemed to come out of thin air. It was the kind of thing I used to dream about in my romantic ideas of travel. As I'd be sitting in my plane seat watching all the other passengers board, awaiting which one would be seated next to me, I always hoped it would be some great single guy.
Instead it's almost always a grandma-type, a fellow youngish woman traveling alone, a couple who chat or cuddle obnoxiously the entire flight, and once—I'm not making this up—I sat next to a monk. After all these non-romantic traveling encounters, I think I'd finally given up my dreamy notions of finding romance at 30,000 feet.
But then last week happened. And I blew it.
It had been a long week of travel for work—four flights in five days. I was exhausted, and so ready to be heading home. The night before had been a travel nightmare complete with delays both on the ground and in the air as we circled Houston in hopes that the storm system that had settled over the city would dissipate or move so we could land. Eventually we got rerouted to Corpus Christi, where I had one of those random lonely singleness moments when I watched nearly all my fellow passengers call home on their cell phones to tell their loved ones of their change of plans and to get some much-needed sympathy.
As I listened to the murmur of conversation, I contemplated calling one of my friends, but figured it wouldn't be quite as meaningful an exchange: "Hi. Sorry to wake you up. Just wanted to call and let you know I'm in Corpus Christi. But you see, I should have been in Houston three hours ago. Did I tell you I was going out of town this week?"
So after a late-night, turbulence-filled flight that increased my prayer life, I finally made it to Houston. And now, the following morning, I was on the final leg of my flight—from Houston to Chicago. Home!
It was a Southwest flight, which means open seating, so the fact that he sat down next to me was his choice. Okay, it also might have had something to do with the fact that the plane was nearly full. But regardless, I took the opportunity to start a conversation with the seemingly nice, ringless man who'd suddenly become my seat-mate.
He was funny. And smart. And a lawyer. Who writes poetry on the side! He was sweetly flirtatious with the elderly woman on the other side of him, who was eating it up. Occasionally he turned and winked at me, with his wondrously long eyelashes, after one of their exchanges. We talked about his dog, Ty, who's obviously the love of his life. And the house he'd just bought. And he couldn't say nice enough things about his mom and sister (that's a good thing, for any of you guys reading this who may be taking notes).
He asked about my job, and when I mentioned I work for a Christian organization, he replied with the good, intrigued kind of "oh!" (as opposed to the so-you're-one-of-those-Jesus-freaks kind of "oh"). We talked about our faith, our families, our dreams for the future. We teased, we flirted, we laughed, we touched each other's arm or shoulder as we talked. Never has a two-hour flight gone by so quickly.
When we landed, he not only volunteered to get my bag from the overhead bin, he insisted on carrying it down the aisle for me. Normally I would have replied with a competent but polite, "Oh that's okay, I've got it." But I wanted him to carry my bag. I was clearly smitten with this Southern gentleman.
As we wandered toward ground transport together, he said something about ending up in a great row on the plane. I smiled, blushed, and mumbled my agreement. And when we stopped in the junction in the baggage claim area between his hallway to the Metra and mine to the limo service stand, he gave me a big hug. We both said we'd enjoyed chatting with each other. And then we went our separate ways.
I don't know why I didn't say something like, "You're adorable, here's my number" (or some more subtle and appropriate version of that sentiment). I think it was so surreal and I was so exhausted from my full week of work travel, it didn't quite register that this was my window of opportunity. As I said, I didn't see it coming. And, unfortunately, I didn't see it going either.
Two minutes later I was out at the curb waiting for my ride, and kicking myself for not giving him my card, my e-mail address, my pledge of undying love (okay, I may have gotten a little overdramatic as the minutes ticked by). As I rode to my office, I replayed all the things I could have done differently—the times I could have handed him my card, the breezy but clearly interested comments I could have said while doing so. I wanted to rewind. I wanted this to be a movie, because at this moment clearly the cheesy romantic music would be cued and he'd suddenly pull up alongside the car on the freeway in a taxi whose driver had been told to "follow that car, I can't let that woman walk out of my life."
Instead I meandered home, and later that afternoon I Googled him (ah, romance in a techno age!). Unfortunately at this juncture I realized I knew his first name, but not his last. The state in which he went to college, but not the specific university's name. The type of law he practices, but not the firm's name. I put on my journalist's hat and tried every little detail from our lengthy conversation. But nothing.
I replayed the tragic tale to some single female friends later that evening during a Christmas party. Several of them shared stories of their own close encounters over the years. One of the women chastised me, "Oh, you should always have a business card ready for such encounters." Those words rang in my ear as I lay in bed that night. I was on an air mattress at a friend's house because the heat in my apartment wasn't working (a long story), and I was having difficulty falling asleep in yet another strange bed that week.
I also had a nice little chat with God about the whole situation. I think my prayer went something like this: "Okay, God, what was the point of that? I feel like the biggest idiot. The most intriguing guy I've met in a couple years whips in and out of my life in two-and-a-half hours and I don't say a thing? You couldn't have nudged me to say something as we parted? Couldn't he have said something? I mean, it was nice to have a great little exchange at the end of this crazy week, but this feels almost cruel when you know I desire to be in a lasting relationship. I know I shouldn't be so bothered by this, and I know you can do anything and that you have my future in your hands. Help me to know what to do with this."
I secretly hoped Airplane Crush would Google me with some of the more concrete details he learned about my life and would e-mail me in the next couple days. Didn't happen. I also hoped that as time passed I'd forget about it, get in the holiday spirit, and would return to a relative level of peace. But a low-level funk persisted. And I also hoped God would grant me some wonderful a-ha moment that would help me make sense of the whole scenario. But, to be honest, I still don't get it.
There have been other such perplexing moments in my singlehood journey. Relationships that were almost right, but not quite. Guys who seemed like a great match for me, but who remained just out of reach. Timing, geography, other details that were just off enough to make a promising possibility a no-go.
Possible explanations have crashed around in my head in such moments. Maybe this possibility was supposed to grant me enough hope to get through to the real thing. Maybe this was to help me crystallize what I'm looking for in a guy. Maybe I was supposed to kick myself for not acting this time so I'll be compelled to say or do something when the "right guy" comes along.
This time, though, I feel ridiculous for getting so flustered about such an encounter during a time of year when I should have a much greater focus and perspective. Despite what our culture often communicates, Christmas isn't about family and being with loved ones, therefore making it a potentially tough time for us single folks. Christmas, I well know, is about God setting the plan for our salvation into motion. Fulfilling hundreds of years of prophecies. Redeeming souls that were utterly lost. Redefining unconditional love. Drawing near to us since we had no way to draw near to him.
Sitting in church this past Sunday, I listened to my parents' pastor talk about Mary and the ridicule she surely endured for being pregnant out of wedlock and the pain she surely endured riding on a donkey to Bethlehem while nine months pregnant. These and so many other things in her life probably made no sense until after the fact, when she could trace God's finger in retrospect and clearly see his plan. But in the thick of her tough journeys, she did what any of us traveling through this crazy life must do to the best of our abilities: follow, obey, trust.
So that's what I'm trying to do this Christmas season. That and thanking God profusely for not giving up on me in my in my shallow moments of melodrama. Someday, I'm choosing to trust, all these close encounters and singlehood ups and downs will make sense. Maybe when I'm standing at the altar someday. And maybe when I'm at the end of my earthly life, standing face-to-face with the one to whom I've lobbed so many questions—though I suspect it won't matter one iota then.
Until then, I'm flinging myself into whatever future God has planned for me—with faith in my head, hope in my heart, and a business card tucked in my pocket, just in case.
Merry Christmas!
Camerin Courtney
Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
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