Writings: What We Do Not See

I'm pressed for time as usual as I rush to get to the airport gate. I have a wedding to catch in two hours, and a million unfinished tasks running through my mind. The terminal waiting area is packed: people are leaning against walls and sitting on the floor. Why does everyone have to be where I want to be tonight? Lack of seating and screaming babies foil my plans to squeeze in a productive 30 minutes of work/study/something before departure.

Typical temperamental Texas weather, which was sunny an hour ago, raises a storm at the most inopportune time. Hard rain starts pelting down outside the windows. Across from me, a blind man's dog begins to whimper; the poor dog is scared of the thunder. He tries to crawl under the seats and hide each time the lightening strikes. In his desperation, he tangles the leash around his owner's legs. Silly dog, I think to myself, what's a big German Shephard like you getting sacred for from a little lightening? His master soothes him with a treat and reassuring sounds.

The lady at the desk announces the worst news possible: the plane has been delayed two hours due to the thunderstorms. A big thunderclap booms as she finishes the announcement - the dog freaks out and I internally curse nature's vicious turn against me. My mind ruminates dark hyperboles: friendships irrevocably broken, to-do lists blown up to pieces, and FAILURE and CATASTROPHE in all freaking caps. I am jarred from this angry introspection by soft, easy laughter. I wonder in disbelief who in their right mind could be anywhere close to happy at this moment. It's the blind man, calming his frightened dog again.

"Shhh, it's okay, Pup. Everything's going to be okay," he says.

He is right, and I am a fool for thinking I know anything about hardship. How terribly silly I see things sometimes.