A Volcano, Lost Luggage and Tender Mercies

I had a morning flight from Buenos Aires to Salta, Argentina. The airport was crowded and the lines were long. My film assignment in Salta was important. Extra baggage fees. Just how much is 2000 pesos, anyway?

The PA announcement was so loud it was unintelligible. My ears were ringing. The fact that the announcement was in Spanish made no difference. I would not have been able to understand it in any language.

“What did they say?” The people around us were scowling and murmuring.

I got in line to find out. As I listened to the conversations around me, the stress level and anger index had risen significantly.

After 45 minutes, my turn came. The gate agent was pleasant and professional. With a strained smile and heavily accented English, she informed me that due to the Chilean Volcano’s most recent eruption, an ash cloud over Southern Argentina was delaying flights. Our flight would be delayed for at least 3 hours.

“Siguiente en la linea, por favor.”

“What’d she say?” my videographer asked.

“Three hour delay.”

“Why?”

“Volcano.”

He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes.

Good idea. I closed mine, too.

My eyes snapped open as the sound assaulted my ears. I must have slept. I was disoriented. My neck hurt. “What now?” I looked at my traveling companion. He was still asleep.

I got in line, again. The airport was more crowded than before. People kept coming in, but no one was going out. The anger index was red-lining. People were yelling at the gate agent. She no longer had on her professional plastic smile. She was yelling back, rapidly, in Spanish.

“All flights have been cancelled. The air traffic controllers have gone on strike” an Ex-pat shouted as he stalked off, rolling his oversize carry-on. “Argentina!” He said it as if that explained everything.

I woke up my cameraman. Our equipment and baggage were supposed to be in a holding area. I sent him to get the gear. I went to get my 2,000 pesos. We’d meet out front of baggage claim.

I fought my way through wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-shoulder people. Thousands of people. Angry, tired people.

The line for refunds and rebooking was long. I couldn’t see the end. A guy in line told me he’d already been waiting for two-hours. He was half-a-mile from the front. I gave up on my 2000 pesos and headed back toward baggage claim.

My cameraman was there, with our gear.

“Where’s my suitcase?” I couldn’t see it under all the gear.

He shrugged. Bad sign.

I asked again. “Where’s my suitcase?”

He didn’t have it.

Really bad sign.

I went back inside the terminal. When the guards weren’t looking, I went back through the exit door to the baggage holding area. There were only a few bags left. Mine wasn’t one of them.

I felt a heaviness in my chest. Anxiety was building. I walked around the holding area hoping my suitcase would magically appear.

It didn’t.

I went to the unclaimed luggage counter and waded to the front. The frazzled girl asked for my luggage tags. I didn’t have them.

“I can’t help you,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t help me’?”

Panic.

My hard drives were in that suitcase. My clothes were in that suitcase. My toothbrush was in that suitcase.

“I can’t help you,” she said again.

“Can I speak with your supervisor?”

“I am supervisor.” Her English syntax was slipping. She waved her hand at the angry mob behind me and the next person stepped forward and began yelling.

I stepped aside.

What would I do for two more weeks in Argentina, without my clothes, my toothbrush, my hard drives. My hard drives. All my footage.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. I asked God to help me find my suitcase.

I had no faith. I knew it. It was gone forever.

“Please Help.”

Then, it came. That feeling of peace that is so unmistakable. I knew it would be okay. I just knew it.

I opened my eyes. The angry people were still yelling. Thousands of them.

I interrupted the person next to me and asked the counter agent again, “Isn’t there something you can do?”

“No.” She was emphatic.

The panic returned. I tried to push it away, but the fear was rising. I tried to hold onto the peace. The answer. The assurance. It was fleeting.

“Help.” I had no one else to call on.

It came again, like a wave washing over me.

Peace.

I walked away from the crowd, the line. I returned to the holding area. In the middle of the tiled room, my suitcase was waiting.

“Thank you.”

A tender mercy. A personal miracle.

I don’t know why God does not intervene in my life all the time. There have been times when I desperately needed, desperately wanted, pleaded for him to intervene, and he did not.

This time he did. And, I knew, it was his intervention that inspired some other soul to return my suitcase.

Looking back I recognize this was a teaching moment. I learned, with greater depth, what it feels like when the inspiration of heaven touches me. I also learned that I must hold onto the peace of heaven in spite of the rising fear and clamoring anger of the world around me. With God’s assurance, it will be Okay.

I also learned that God loves us, always. He loves us when he grants our requests. And, he loves us more, when he does not.

As I struggled through the crowded airport, I no longer felt the turmoil around me.

“You found it,” my cameraman said.

“Yes I did.”