It was at this exact spot—Delta’s check-in counter at Madison’s International Airport–that I first learned how awry one’s travel plans could go. A bubble of innocence popped. My trip to Europe had begun magically enough, on my birthday driving with my BFF through a snowy, cold November day when Marvin rings from London.

“Celebrating Jen‘s birthday!” Kate answered his what are you doing question while putting him on speaker. We knew him from a spiritual academy in Wisconsin, before he became a self-made millionaire, dreaming in code.  Feats I can’t begin to fathom.  Kate got a lot closer to him than I did—he’d flown her to Colombia, given her a laptop, a phone.

After his birthday greetings landed, he made a generous suggestion, “I’ll fly you both to my place in Holland as a birthday present.  We’ll tour around. . . Spain, Italy, Belgium, maybe come to my flat in London–I love London.  I’ll cover your food and drink, all you’ll need is spending money.”

We lived in awe of this offer for the next five months, our greeting became, “We’re going to Europe!”  In a shrill octave, like we just won the lottery.  And to my gypsy spirit madly in love with going anywhere, I felt like I had.  Europe.  EUROPE.  Across the pond.  The closer it got, our greeting became the countdown: “One month!”  “One week!”  “Tomorrow!”  The anticipation was titillating—a future we were living in the moments of the now until we’re wheeling and clicking across the shiny floor to the counter where the Delta lady wouldn’t let me on the plane because I didn’t have three extra months on my passport past my return date. 

Her words slap the silly grin right off my face.  Promises I’ll come back on time, claims of complete ignorance, an offer to sign said promise, nothing changed her mind because it’s not up to her.  It’s Europe’s rule, one that comes with a hefty fine if not complied with. “They could send you right back on a plane once you land.”

A risk I considered taking.

Instead, she suggested (and a plan hatched) that I drive the three and a half hours to the embassy in Chicago, get an expedited passport and fly out of O’Hare the next day exactly 24 hours later.  

I’m approaching that exact same spot now, twelve years later, my heart beating rapidly. In memoriam. There’s a woman off to the side, smartly dressed in a shade of orange best described as happy. She’s encircled by more luggage than can possibly be her own. I motion for her to go ahead. She gives me a big smile and motions for me to go ahead. Classic Wisconsin.

I hesitate, restate my motion that she go ahead.  Also, classic Wisconsin.  

“It’s a long story,” she offers by way of explanation, doubling down on her smile.

And I, by way of empathy, extend a, “Yeah, I was there once.”  Explaining my passport issue of twelve years ago.

Her eyes brighten, “That’s us, too!” 

Stunned (but also not, because I lived it) I keep going with how I solved it.  Her husband comes up, looking dejected saying how there’s no appointments for two weeks unless they drive to Colorado.  To which she exclaims, “She had the same thing!” pointing to me and explaining how I got on a flight the next day.

After a little discussion, they do the ol’ what do we have to lose shrug. Their gratitude and the timing of it all makes my heart do a different kind of excited beat—the thrill of playing a part in alleviating another’s struggle, a satisfaction in fulfilling what feels like my purpose, and seeing the big picture get divinely orchestrated once again. 

Turning back to the counter, the agent is beaming and says incredulously, “Oh my God, what are the chances?  I had no idea how to help them and then you came along!”

I feel the space flip from what had been a place of angst and mistakes into a place of magic and promise.  After twelve years.  Dare I say, it felt surreal.  

I’d once asked one of the main teachers at that spiritual academy about these serendipitous type experiences which often occurred in my life.  

“Checkpoints,” he’d said. “Between you and the Universe.”

I’ve carried that answer with me for years and it’s always made me smile.  Writing this, I decided to look the word up: a location whose exact position can be verified visually or electronically, used by pilots to aid navigation.

Yeah, that’s exactly what it feels like.