Sometimes the telephone rings and you can just feel it- there’s an undercurrent in the air, a shrillness to the ring imploring you to answer- an echo of the words yet to be uttered. Bad news can be delivered in a staccato tone- each word- every syllable- pronounced with crisp, clean precision.

My southern sister was on the line and our Mama was very ill. I needed an airplane ticket and I needed one quickly. My husband Bob became my trusty travel agent and I soon had a flight.  He would drive me to Dayton, where I would fly from Dayton to Charlotte to Atlanta.

The flight from Dayton to Charlotte was uneventful.  We landed in the most ordinary of ways, and I went in search of the room all 50-something women need to visit upon landing.  I called Mama on the telephone and prayed with her. Hanging up, I was relieved to take a seat in the terminal and wait to board my flight to Atlanta.

I should have known something was up as I ambled down the aisle looking for my seat.  A flight attendant quite coyly asked me if I was old enough to sit in the emergency exit aisle.  Another lady about 10 years my senior was already settled there, engrossed in her book. I positioned my purse on the floor, clicked my seat belt, and closed my eyes. I should insert here that my purse was not the best choice for travel.  It was my beach purse and it does not zip or snap. No time to change purses when you have 30 minutes to pack.

A female flight attendant began doing what flight attendants do before take-off and she stopped abruptly by my seat.

“You’ll need to put your purse up top.” (The space under my seat was already inhabited by a bookbag belonging to the gentleman sitting behind me.)

Before I could respond to our flight attendant’s request, I received a text from my sister that Mama was weak and it was going to be a long surgery. This text was met with intermittent messages from my husband and children all wanting  reassuring updates about our sweet Mama. A tiny drop of water squeezed itself out of the corner of my eye.  I began to pray.  I had no eloquent words or Scripture verses dripping off my tongue.  My prayer was simple, brief, and desperate. “Jesus, I know you’re with me but I really need to feel your presence. Help me.”

What happened next would make a great ‘Seinfeld’ episode with me in the role of ‘Elaine.’  The flight attendant repeated her request, this time with a bit more impatience in her tone.

“You’ll need to put your purse up top now.”

I’m not sure exactly what happened next in my frazzled, emotional brain. I should preface this statement with the fact that inside my purse was the ‘golden ticket’ to remaining cancer-free: Tamoxifen.  I wish to also plead my case that by this time we had been sitting on the plane for over 2 hours.  Thunderstorms…   Thunderstorms, hormones, and stress are never a good combo.

A voice bordering on mild hysteria came from within.

“You can’t have my purse. My medication is in there.”

This is probably not the wisest choice of words to utter when one is flying. The lady sitting next to me suddenly looked up from her book. She patted my arm, looked quizzically into my face, and said:

“She’ll give it back.”

She looked into my fully leaking eyeballs at this moment, and asked the million-dollar question: “Is something wrong?”

The volcano erupted.  I told her all about my sweet Mama’s surgery, my need to get to Atlanta quickly, and that my purse didn’t zip or snap.  I didn’t want to lose my medication if my purse started ‘rolling around up top.’

And then… the inexplicable happened.  My flight mate’s name was Kay. She shared that she was a retired nurse and knew all about my Mama’s surgery. She innocently asked (and perhaps with some trepidation on her part) what type of medication was in my purse.

“Tamoxifen.”

“So, you’re a survivor. How long?”

“Two years…”

“Me too.  Ten years…”

“What do you do in your free time now that you’re a retired nurse?”

“I’m a preschool teacher.”

I gulped- most likely visibly. You see- I’m a preschool teacher. I thought back to the prayer I had uttered earlier.

“Jesus, I know you’re there.  But I really need to feel your presence. Help me.”

I sat there stunned. The entire episode of my real-life ‘Seinfeld’  rewound through my brain:  the delayed take-off, the snarky flight attendant, my beach purse containing the precious Tamoxifen, the frazzled text messages, and the lady sitting beside me- Kay. I asked Jesus to show up and quite frankly I wasn’t certain He would.

Not only did He show up, he orchestrated my seating arrangements on that plane.  He placed me next to a nurse familiar with my Mama’s surgery, a breast cancer thriver like me, and a preschool teacher to boot.  Now that is one clever Jesus.

Kay and I became fast friends on the remainder of our flight. She walked with me to baggage claim and to hunt down a taxi.  Before we said goodbye, I told her about my prayer and I thanked her for answering my plea.  She looked me square in the eye and said without missing a beat:

“Don’t thank me. Thank Him.”

So the next time you’re in a tight spot- a situation that you’re just not sure He’s going to handle- look around you.  Take a long, hard look at the people He has positioned in your life at that moment. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet your “Jesus with skin.”  I did- her name was Kay…