A Word from Ward
Last Tuesday, I arrived at SeaTac for an early morning flight to Burbank to shoot some promotional video for the upcoming CASA Network 7 great days of Influencing the Generations conferences, scheduled this summer and fall across America. Once the work was done, I would take a flight home that evening.
My seat assignment was in the rear of the plane. Not my idea. Theirs. So I asked the agent if there might be a comparable seat further forward, perhaps row 11 or better? They put me in row 16A. Best they could do, he explained. Well, it is an improvement over row 26, I thought to myself. But then it got even better. After everyone appeared to be onboard, seats 16 B and C remained vacant. I smiled. Is God good or what? Selfishly (and yes, happily) I prepared to spread out and get some work done.
That’s when I saw her coming down the aisle.
She was being literally carried, wheelchair and all, by two airline personnel. They stopped at my row. I watched as they lifted her out of the wheelchair and helped situate her in the aisle seat. She was older, perhaps in her late sixties, obviously severely crippled (I later found out, a cerebral palsy victim), and extremely frail. Her head was bent forward and it took some effort for her to look up, but she did to the attendants and smiled, saying, “Thank you. That was the best ride ever!”

As we waited for the plane to push away from the terminal, I saw her working with the seatbelt, her fingers not quite doing what appeared to be needed. “May I help you?” I asked. “No thank you,” she answered. “I think I’ve got it now.” She turned her head slightly and looked up at me as best she could, smiling her appreciation.
“Are you vacationing?” I asked.
“No, I’m going home.”
“And where is home?”
“Bakersfield,” she replied, her eyes lighting up as the word rolled off her lips. “I’ve lived in Seattle with my son and four grandchildren for twelve years. I’ve really tried to make it work, and I will miss them, but I can’t take the overcast and the rain anymore. So I’m going home to Bakersfield and the sunshine, to live with my twin sister.”
We exchanged more pleasantries and she told me her name: Sally.
Our conversation continued. Sally shared that both she and her sister’s husbands had died some years ago. Her sister’s only child, a daughter, had been killed at age 18 in a car crash, devastating her son since they had grown up together, like sister and brother. And Sally had endured cerebral palsy all her life. “People often ask me if I miss walking,” she said. “I tell them, no. I’ve never walked in my life. Ever. Not one step. So how can I miss something I’ve never done?”
I mentioned my impression that she appeared be a Christian. She smiled again and said, “Oh, yes. I love the Lord with all my heart. He has given me so much joy. I have had such a wonderful life. I’ve been so blessed!”
I asked what things she enjoyed doing. “Reading, crossword puzzles and meditating on life,” she replied without hesitation.
“And now you’re going home,” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled, her countenance shining once again. “I’m going home and I’m so excited!”
Our plane eventually landed. People crowded into the aisle, impatient to debark. A rather well fed couple in 17D and E, impatient looks on their faces, yanked carry-on bags from the overhead storage just above Sally’s head. The woman glanced down at her wordlessly. Then the two grimly pushed forward, not waiting for seat sections to clear in front of them, intent on whatever was next. As I prepared to leave, Sally apologized for it being inconvenient to get by her. “I’ll be the last one off,” she said, still smiling. “They’ll wait for everyone else, then come get me.”
The Lord knew I needed to be surprised. A move from 26A to 16A. A predestined seat mate. Someone too quick to pity, too easy to ignore. “Enjoy your new life, Sally,” I said as I moved carefully past her into the aisle. “I will,” she replied. And I was caught up in the flow toward the exit door.
I may never see Sally again this side of heaven. But heaven was very close last Tuesday in row 16 on an early morning flight to Burbank. My normal routine when assigned seating that far back is to ask if anything comparable has opened up further forward. This time my routine turned out to be better than comparable. It was a magnificent privilege to be moved up from row 26 to row 16. To share seats that I had coveted for my own selfish self with a truly beautiful woman named Sally, trapped for a lifetime in a twisted body that had never served her well. Ever.
And I was reminded something I often say (and believe on most days). When routines become magnificent, the daily routine becomes a holy adventure!
It happened for me last Tuesday. A holy adventure. It really was “the best ride ever!”





















