Close Call

I’m writing this while sitting on the plane, my heart still pounding from a frantic dash through the airport. Each breath feels like a small victory after the chaos that just unfolded.

My husband and I embarked on a whirlwind day trip to Boston to celebrate our son’s 22nd birthday. For weeks, we’d mapped out every detail, our anticipation growing with each passing day. It had been two long months since we last saw him, making this reunion feel all the more precious and overdue.

All week, we excitedly gathered the items our son requested and thoughtful birthday gifts, sneaking in a few extra surprises we knew he’d love. By Friday night, the anticipation was so intense that I went to bed earlier than usual—determined not to waste a single moment of energy for our day with the birthday boy. Still, my excitement wouldn’t let me sleep in; I found myself wide awake by 4 a.m., heart pounding, already picturing the look on my son’s face when he saw us.

Security and boarding at the airport were surprisingly stress-free. The flight itself was packed, but nothing could dampen our spirits—our sole focus was getting to Boston on time. When we touched down a few minutes ahead of schedule, excitement bubbled up inside me. We wasted no time grabbing our rental car and speeding toward our son’s campus. The moment I saw him waiting for us, my heart leapt. Wrapping him in a tight embrace, I felt a rush of joy and relief that made every mile worth it.

We’d planned an ambitious itinerary, determined to make the most of our time together, but Boston’s notorious traffic forced us to improvise. Two of our five plans had to be scrapped, and although my son took the changes in stride, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment. Our visit felt like it was slipping through our fingers. Still, we made the most of every moment—sharing laughs, catching up, and ending our visit with a heartfelt prayer and one last tight hug before dashing back to the airport.

This was the moment when everything that could possibly go wrong did—one mishap cascading into the next, setting off a chain reaction of chaos that would test our patience and resolve at every turn.

According to our boarding passes, we had a window from 6:28 to 6:56 to board our flight—plenty of time, or so my husband thought, since we were traveling light and had no checked bags. But as we crawled through the tangle of city traffic toward the gas station, anxiety began to simmer in my chest. I could almost feel my cortisol levels spiking with every minute lost. My husband reassured me we’d have no problem filling the tank before returning the rental, but fate had other plans. At the first gas pump, nothing happened; I could hear the repetitive clack as my husband tried, in vain, to get the gas flowing. Undeterred, he maneuvered to another pump—only to be met with the same maddening silence. Frustration mounted, and my prayers for a miracle grew more urgent. After a tense moment, the pump finally sputtered to life, and I exhaled in relief. It was a small victory, but we were still racing the clock.

He jumps back into the car, adrenaline fueling our urgency as we speed toward the rental return—my eyes darting between the dashboard clock and the endless stream of brake lights ahead. The moment we screech to a stop, we scramble out, handing over the keys to the attendant, who gives us a quick thumbs up. Without pausing to catch our breath, we dash to the shuttle stop, arriving just as the bus doors hiss open. The bus is shoulder-to-shoulder with anxious travelers, but we squeeze in, exchanging a silent look of victory—at least for now. Pressed against other passengers, we finally allow ourselves a shaky sigh of relief, convinced that we’re back on track and have enough time to clear security.

We rode the shuttle, unease growing with every stop as it let passengers off at every terminal except ours. With each pause, my hope dwindled and anxiety crept in—until my husband, sensing my mounting tension, went up to the driver to ask when we’d reach our stop. The driver, remarkably calm, delivered the news that we’d been on the wrong bus all along. We were told to get off and wait for bus 22, and just as frustration threatened to boil over, bus 22 miraculously appeared. We hurried over, but this time, not wanting to repeat our mistake, we checked with the driver before boarding. He shook his head, telling us this wasn’t our bus either, but pointed to yet another shuttle pulling in behind him. My husband tried to reassure me, but all I could hear was the relentless ticking of the clock, each second a reminder that our time was slipping away.

We bolted toward the next bus, hearts pounding, and anxiously asked the third shuttle driver if he was going to our terminal. Whether he didn’t hear us or simply couldn’t be bothered, he barked at us to sit down. Stunned and with no other option, we sank into our seats, glancing nervously at each other as the doors closed behind us.

Shock lingered as I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling while I texted my kids, desperate for a miracle. The time was 6:35—our plane was already boarding, and we were still inching our way through the airport maze. The bus crawled along at what felt like a glacial pace, painfully slow as other shuttles zipped past us, taunting our predicament. I knew in my heart that only God’s grace could get us through. With every tick of the clock, fear and doubt tried to take hold, but I clung tightly to hope—reminding myself of the promise I'd made that the subsequent text to my kids would be from the plane, even as worst-case scenarios played out in my mind.

The shuttle finally screeched to a halt at our terminal at 6:48 pm, and we bolted out the doors, adrenaline and desperation driving us. We hurried toward security, scanning for lines—thankfully, the checkpoint was nearly deserted, a small miracle in our favor. I breezed through the body scanner, my pulse racing, but my husband was stopped; the machine needed recalibration, and he was forced to wait in suspense. Meanwhile, my purse and jacket were flagged for extra screening, causing me to watch the minutes slip away. Each new delay felt like time itself was conspiring against us, gnawing away at our final chances to make the flight.

By 6:53, we spotted the direction of our gate and, without hesitation, launched into a full sprint through the terminal. It felt like we were the heroes of a frantic movie scene, moments away from shouting, “Hold the plane!” if it came to that. The stakes couldn’t have been higher—this was the last flight home, and the thought of leaving our youngest alone for the night propelled me forward. My lungs burned and my legs ached, but I silently thanked every workout that had prepared me for this moment. Without that sliver of stamina, I might never have made it.

With my small purse bouncing at my side, I surged ahead of my husband, who was slowed down by his backpack and coat. Each breath felt ragged, my heart hammering as the gate finally appeared in sight. With just one minute to spare, I reached the attendant, gasping out that my husband was right behind me. Relief and disbelief mingled as I realized we had actually made it—in the nick of time.

As I hurried to my seat, I felt dozens of eyes tracking my every move. I was huffing and puffing as if I’d just completed a marathon—my mouth parched, my face flushed, and my hair plastered to my forehead from my desperate sprint (or at least my version of one). For a moment, I became the spectacle, the breathless traveler everyone watched with curiosity and perhaps a bit of sympathy.

Moments later, my husband slipped in just as the flight attendants sealed the airplane door behind him. I shot a triumphant text to my kids, letting them know we were finally on board, safe and sound, and ready for takeoff. A wave of relief washed over me as I sank back into my seat, adrenaline slowly giving way to gratitude.

I know I might sound dramatic, but for me, every second of this experience truly felt like the climax of a suspense movie. It was a relentless series of setbacks—each hiccup shaving precious minutes off, from malfunctioning gas pumps to confusing shuttle rides and excruciating delays at security. Nothing seemed to go our way, yet somehow, against all odds, God made a way. I usually try to avoid making a spectacle of myself in public, but desperation triumphed over embarrassment. The promise I’d made to my kids—to text them from the plane—became my lifeline, pushing me forward no matter how ridiculous I might look. For once, I was the frantic traveler I’d always judged from afar, racing against the clock and refusing to give up.

Looking back, I realize God used this wild adventure to remind me of a vital lesson: no matter the obstacles or setbacks, you can’t give up. Pursue your goals, your purpose, your dreams—even when doubts creep in or you risk looking foolish. People might judge or misunderstand, but perseverance matters most. If we had given up at any point along the way, we would never have experienced the joy of making it and being on our flight home.

Despite the chaos, stress, and heart-pounding close calls, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Every frantic moment and obstacle was worth the few precious hours together, which were worth every ounce of effort. The whirlwind journey gave me memories I’ll cherish forever and a lesson in perseverance and faith that will shape me for years to come.