“What takes you to Costa Rica?” the young woman across the aisle asked as we settled into our flight from Tegucigalpa, Honduras to San Jose.
“Oh, it’s just a stopover for me,” I replied. “My final destination is Quito, Ecuador. I’ll be serving as a short-term missionary at HCJB, a television and radio station.”
“We’re missionaries ourselves,” the woman replied, indicating with a hand-wave her seat mate.
And so began a pleasant conversation that passed the time quickly and helped settle my nerves about traveling alone from one foreign country to another that included an overnight stay in a hotel.
For six weeks of June and July, another girl and I had lived with a missionary family in Tegucigalpa, assisting them with their correspondence school.
One little corner of Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Laurel would soon head back to America to start college; I was taking a semester off between high school and college to teach preschool and kindergarten for the children of staff members at HCJB.
My very first commercial flights had been with Laurel as we traveled from Chicago to Miami and then Honduras. This twenty-four hour trip was on my own.
Upon arrival in Costa Rica I said good-by to the friendly missionaries and planned to remain in my seat till the plane took off again.
But a flight attendant informed me, “You’ll have to deboard, Senorita. This plane doesn’t go to Panama City.”
Oh-oh. The original itinerary arranged for in May did not include two separate flights and my ticket offered no clues. Now what was I supposed to do? Where should I go? What about my luggage?
The two missionaries had not left the plane yet. They accompanied me to the information desk inside the airport where a kind gentleman (who spoke excellent English) offered to resolve the problem. He assured the two missionaries all would be well, and I thanked them as they left.
Mr. Info Desk took me to another desk where they arranged for my second flight and made sure my luggage would be transferred. Then Mr. I. D. invited me to sit nearby.
“I’ll see you to the gate in plenty of time,” he promised. An hour or so later he escorted me through the terminal and even ushered me onto the plane.
(The flight took us over the Panama Canal.)
In Panama City, while checking through customs, I met a woman from Arizona. We discovered our hotels neighbored each other and planned to share a taxi. But it took much longer for me to be processed–what with my six months-worth of belongings. We said our good-byes and Ms. Arizona* exited customs.
Not long after I settled at the hotel, my new friend called. “Why don’t you come over and join me at the pool?” she suggested. I accepted her invitation, and we chatted away several delightful hours together.
The next morning all went well from hotel to airport, through emigration, and on to the crowded seating area. I settled next to an older priest, who also happened to be traveling to Quito.
(Tocumen International Airport, Panama City, Panama)
Our flight time passed without any announcement from the loudspeaker, and still we waited. Meanwhile a soccer team arrived, dressed in gray pants and navy blazers, all talking at once and laughing loudly. Once they left, the room grew noticeably quieter.
“I’m going to see what’s holding up our flight,” announced the Padre, getting up from his seat. “We should have been called long before now.”
He soon returned, announcing, “Grab your bags, Miss. We’re on the same flight with that soccer team. The desk agent didn’t think to announce boarding for the rest of us.”
Only a handful of passengers weren’t soccer players. If not for the travel-wise priest, I surely would have missed that plane.
(Quito sits over 9,000 feet above sea level,
nestled between mountains, higher still. )
But I arrived safe and sound with no mishaps, even though circumstances could have gone awry numerous times.
The help I received–from at least five people during my journey–seemed too coincidental for mere chance. God undoubtedly intervened.
In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the two missionaries, Mr. Info Desk, Ms. Arizona, and the Padre weren’t angels, put in charge of one young and very inexperienced traveler.
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*No, she wasn’t a beauty queen, I just don’t remember her name after all these decades!
Photo credits: http://www.wikimedia.com; http://www.flickr.com; http://www.snl.no; http://www.wikimedia.com; http://www.flickr.com; www. wikimedia.com; http://www.flickr.com; http://www.piqsels.com.
When have you received what seemed like angelic assistance? Tell us about it in the comment section below!
From the Inside Out 