Every seat on the airplane was filled. When I got to the number on my own ticket, I groaned. A middle seat from Tel Aviv to Amsterdam? I’d asked God to find the best seat for me. There was no way this was it.
After ten days touring Israel on an injured knee. I’d hoped I’d be able to stretch my leg into the aisle. Instead I’d be squeezed between two passengers, one of whom would probably need to crawl over me at some point.
In the window seat sat an older woman. I couldn’t ask her to change. And the young man in the aisle seat was so tall and lanky. I sighed and settled myself in the middle. Not every little prayer can be answered, I reminded myself.
“Me llamo Perla,” the woman at the window said. Thanks to my school Spanish, I managed some simple conversation with Perla, who was returning to her home near Machu Picchu. She’d just had knee surgery and she was diabetic. She needed information about sugars in the airplane meals and wheelchair connection at the airport, but none of the attendants spoke Spanish.
When the attendant came by, I translated Perla’s questions. By the time the plane landed, Perla and I had become friends. I barely noticed my throbbing knee as I walked down the aisle on my connecting flight. I settled into my assigned seat—right on the aisle, in an empty row. “I thought you might enjoy having a little extra room,” the flight attendant said.
God had found me the perfect seat. Again.
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