Originally published in The Newnan Times-Herald, read here.
On most mornings, when I drive to the Atlanta airport, it is uneventful. Twenty-five minutes, door to door.
This particular morning was different.
I was already running late after stopping to put air in one of my tires. Then I saw an open gas pump and got there first, just ahead of someone else circling and looking for an opening. Merging onto I-85 North, I slid into the far-left lane, where nobody lets anyone in. At the airport garage, I used my turn signal so another driver knew I had seen the parking spot first and intended to park there.
Inside the terminal, my pace did not slow. I moved quickly, and with each person I passed, it felt like the security line was getting shorter. Arriving at the TSA security checkpoint, I flashed my iPhone boarding pass, and the gate attendant waved me in while four others were still trying to get their phones to work. Score.
Standing in line, the morning’s intensity finally faded, and the airport’s energy took over. I scanned the crowd the way I always do, guessing where people might be headed. My favorites are those in flip-flops, shorts, T-shirts and hats, with smiles the size of Texas, while it’s freezing outside. The rest of us are in winter clothes, but we know where you’re going, and we want to be there too.
As the line started to move forward, that’s when I saw him.
A man with a white cane and sunglasses tapped forward, struggling to find the stanchion ropes as he walked into one. That’s when I realized he had limited vision. The people between that gentleman and me were sighing, huffing and rolling their eyes in muttered frustration. Someone asked aloud why he didn’t use another line. That did not sit well with me.
I squeezed my suitcase handle, then stepped forward, dragging it ahead in the narrow lane as I semi-bounced off my fellow travelers.
“Excuse me… excuse me,” I said, moving past others. There was more noise. As I approached him, his head tilted toward the commotion. He was listening like radar. His face indicated he heard the noise and was picturing in his mind what was taking place.
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Hello, my friend. My name’s Scott. I thought we could navigate security together.”
His smile came instantly. “My name is Mark. I would like that,” he said, extending his hand for me to find it.
Afterward, Mark placed his hand on my shoulder, and we walked together. We talked about where we were traveling to, our families, where we lived, and our love of travel. At his gate, he extended his hand again, waiting for me to find it.
“I wish you well, Scott. I am thankful we met today.”
“Likewise, my friend. I hope our paths cross again,” I said, followed by a strong handshake that I will always remember.
As I walked away, I stopped and turned back. Tears surprised me. I stood there, staring at him, and prayed quietly, watching him walk through the boarding door.
As I turned to walk to my gate, that’s when I thought about my morning. The pump. The lane. The parking spot. The line.
I didn’t like who I had been before I met Mark.
When did we stop seeing each other? When did we get so busy that we stopped seeing humanity?
Mark never saw me. Mark saw things the right way.
We’re all trying to get somewhere. I believe we’re rushing past too much along the way.
I think it’s worth considering.
I’ll leave you with that. Until next time.
