I spent this
weekend in Atlanta attending a really good reading conference, as conferences
go. Sometimes you spend two days wondering why in the world you missed work to attend such a time-waster.
This was not the case. I loved
it. And Atlanta in May is something to
behold. Eighty degrees and flowering
Magnolia trees do the heart good.
Especially when you hear that it’s snowing at home.
Yesterday
morning I didn’t oversleep, got myself dressed and packed in good time, checked
out of the hotel, and found a taxi to shuttle me to the airport. I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for
being so cosmopolitan and efficient.
I thought the
check-in desks were doing a brisk business for 6:15 a.m. (“busy airport” back
home means the lady in front of you forgot that she packed her rheumatism
medicine in her check-in bag and needs to fish it out, thus holding up the
line, such as it is). I checked my
suitcase and headed to the security checkpoint.
As I read the signs for security, more and more people began to swirl
around me, like minnows in a tide pool. Generally,
if I don’t know where I am going, I just start following the masses, assuming
SOMEONE in the group knows. I adopted
this survival skill once again. The pack
and I were stopped by personnel before long and told that the security station we
were seeking was not usable. We were
told to head the other direction and try another one. The pack and I dutifully obeyed and wandered
until we sighted a line ahead. A very,
very long line. Did I mention it was
long?? And growing exponentially by the minute.
The line soon
snaked around the first three baggage claim carousels. Then carousels #’s four and five. Soon the entire baggage claim area was
flooded with frustrated, disbelieving passengers. We were so far away from the actual security
check-point that it was not even visible.
I may or may not have overheard a few expletives. The tension in the air was palpable. Tempers were sizzling. The poor business man behind me conveyed that
his flight was boarding at that very moment.
It left before he even got through security.
In the chaos of
that scene, I suddenly heard the soft strains of… stringed music? I set my carry-on down for a moment to give my
screaming shoulder a rest and craned my neck to try to detect the source. Not far behind me, there in the corner, stood
a young woman. She couldn’t have been
more than twenty-something. She had a
music stand in front of her and was playing classical music, with eyes closed,
and a soft smile on her face. She
seemed sweetly oblivious to the maelstrom around her.
There was
something so charming and peaceful and utterly out of place about the scene. I have grown to expect Hip Hop blaring out of
somebody’s earbuds. Classical music, not
so much. As I stood trying to watch her,
even as the lines lunged and lurched forward, I felt the tension around me
dissipate. Saw it melt from the faces
around me. Sensed it roll off my own
shoulders. That sweet, young angel had
done something good. It felt a little
magical.
I couldn’t help but
connect that scene to the children my team and I read to every week. It has always been my hope, my dream, my
goal, that we would have the same therapeutic effect on those precious, confused,
suffering, frustrated children. That
they would crane their necks searching for the source of magic, and find one of
us; there… in the corner. A joy on our
face that infuses them with hope. A hope
that brings serenity in the midst of cacophony.
Thank you, Airport
Angel, for brightening my day. I hope we
do the same for others.
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| I found a story about her in a Google search - her name is Jennifer Warrilaw |
