By Marcus Engel, Notre Dame Adjunct Faculty, Founder of I'm Here Movement
marcusengel.com
If you keep an eye on social media, you'll routinely see a public post where I'm praying to the airline gods. Obviously, this is done tongue and cheek, but I really, really, really love it when the middle seat is unoccupied. Elliott does, too. More room for long lab legs and tails.
Recently I was crossing my fingers that the flight attendant was right: that maybe, just maybe, there might be a few open seats... one of which was right next to me. Then, just as the door was ready to be closed, a last-minute standby passenger boarded. And - you guessed it! She sat down right next to me. So much for that prayer to the airline gods.
Any time I'm seated next to someone, I tell my fellow passenger, "The pooch down here is a really good flyer, but just let me know if he starts encroaching on your space." 99% of the time, the passenger is a dog lover and they're happy to have Elliott sleeping on their foot.
This time, though? When I said something to my seatmate, there was no response. Silence. Weird, I thought. But then again, it's not so weird. There have been many times I've been seated next to a non-English speaker and the flight is taken quietly. Oh well, I thought, sticking in some ear buds.
Then, just after we hit 10K feet, my seatmate turned, tapped me on the arm and spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but my father just died three hours ago. I just wanted you to know if you hear me crying, you're not seated next to a crazy woman."
I barely heard anything she said after "father died." Of course, my heart totally went out to her. I offered my condolences, said a silent prayer for her peace and tried to do what I teach: stay present and compassionate to the suffering of others. She told a few stories about her father's last few months battling cancer and how she's sad, of course, but relieved to know he is no longer in pain.
After some tears and memories, she asked if I live in Orlando. "Yes, but I'm a native of the mid-west. I've been in Orlando for 12 years now."
"What brought you to Orlando?" she asked.
"I got married. I got three teenage step-kids in the deal. They're all grown now. In fact, one just got married over the weekend. When my wife and I got together, it made more sense for me to move to Orlando than for the four of them to move to St. Louis."
Then, more tears. And sobs. After a few minutes, she regained her composure.
"My dad that just died is actually my stepdad. I never knew my biological father, but Dad adopted me when I was just a toddler. Then, when I was 12, my mother left us. My dad kept me and raised me as his own, even though he didn't have to. When you said you're a stepdad, too, it reminded me just how lucky I am to have had him as my dad."
I needed her to clarify: "You were raised by your step-father when your biological mom left?"
"Yes."
"Sounds like you were both pretty lucky," I said... and I truly meant it.
Never once in this conversation did she mention the dog at my feet. She never asked me about blindness, how I lost my sight, or the work I do. Nothing except talk of our families. I understand that there are a very small number of blind folks in the world. And that one with a guide dog is even more rare. And being seated next to a dog on a flight isn't an everyday thing. And I expect and embrace questions. It's just my life. But none of those things mattered in that moment. This grieving daughter was most interested in our connection as people - the fabric of relationship. It all just felt... sacred.
We all go around portraying some sort of outward persona. It's just what we do. But this wasn't playing a part... it was a shared connection based in a choice I made a dozen years ago. And I'm the lucky one, too. To be able to sit with another person in their sorrow, to hold a hand when another is hurting, to be present and compassionate when there is suffering, that's something I get to do. Sometimes it's with nurses and healthcare professionals, and sometimes it's with a complete stranger, miles in the air.
Today, I hope we all stay open to the suffering around us, to stay present to the pains of people and the world and choose to remain compassionate for others... even when they take the middle seat.
marcusengel.com
If you keep an eye on social media, you'll routinely see a public post where I'm praying to the airline gods. Obviously, this is done tongue and cheek, but I really, really, really love it when the middle seat is unoccupied. Elliott does, too. More room for long lab legs and tails.
Recently I was crossing my fingers that the flight attendant was right: that maybe, just maybe, there might be a few open seats... one of which was right next to me. Then, just as the door was ready to be closed, a last-minute standby passenger boarded. And - you guessed it! She sat down right next to me. So much for that prayer to the airline gods.
Any time I'm seated next to someone, I tell my fellow passenger, "The pooch down here is a really good flyer, but just let me know if he starts encroaching on your space." 99% of the time, the passenger is a dog lover and they're happy to have Elliott sleeping on their foot.
This time, though? When I said something to my seatmate, there was no response. Silence. Weird, I thought. But then again, it's not so weird. There have been many times I've been seated next to a non-English speaker and the flight is taken quietly. Oh well, I thought, sticking in some ear buds.
Then, just after we hit 10K feet, my seatmate turned, tapped me on the arm and spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but my father just died three hours ago. I just wanted you to know if you hear me crying, you're not seated next to a crazy woman."
I barely heard anything she said after "father died." Of course, my heart totally went out to her. I offered my condolences, said a silent prayer for her peace and tried to do what I teach: stay present and compassionate to the suffering of others. She told a few stories about her father's last few months battling cancer and how she's sad, of course, but relieved to know he is no longer in pain.
After some tears and memories, she asked if I live in Orlando. "Yes, but I'm a native of the mid-west. I've been in Orlando for 12 years now."
"What brought you to Orlando?" she asked.
"I got married. I got three teenage step-kids in the deal. They're all grown now. In fact, one just got married over the weekend. When my wife and I got together, it made more sense for me to move to Orlando than for the four of them to move to St. Louis."
Then, more tears. And sobs. After a few minutes, she regained her composure.
"My dad that just died is actually my stepdad. I never knew my biological father, but Dad adopted me when I was just a toddler. Then, when I was 12, my mother left us. My dad kept me and raised me as his own, even though he didn't have to. When you said you're a stepdad, too, it reminded me just how lucky I am to have had him as my dad."
I needed her to clarify: "You were raised by your step-father when your biological mom left?"
"Yes."
"Sounds like you were both pretty lucky," I said... and I truly meant it.
Never once in this conversation did she mention the dog at my feet. She never asked me about blindness, how I lost my sight, or the work I do. Nothing except talk of our families. I understand that there are a very small number of blind folks in the world. And that one with a guide dog is even more rare. And being seated next to a dog on a flight isn't an everyday thing. And I expect and embrace questions. It's just my life. But none of those things mattered in that moment. This grieving daughter was most interested in our connection as people - the fabric of relationship. It all just felt... sacred.
We all go around portraying some sort of outward persona. It's just what we do. But this wasn't playing a part... it was a shared connection based in a choice I made a dozen years ago. And I'm the lucky one, too. To be able to sit with another person in their sorrow, to hold a hand when another is hurting, to be present and compassionate when there is suffering, that's something I get to do. Sometimes it's with nurses and healthcare professionals, and sometimes it's with a complete stranger, miles in the air.
Today, I hope we all stay open to the suffering around us, to stay present to the pains of people and the world and choose to remain compassionate for others... even when they take the middle seat.