My baggage lies unpacked in my bedroom. The house is barely sorted. I have quite a bit to do before I interview a pretty amazing guest tomorrow for Curious Cat. All that said, a story is pressing to be told. So, as I ignore my hungry hound whose suppertime is in seventeen minutes, I must tell it.
I’d traveled to Denver for a few reasons, the most important being to spend time with my eldest who lives in the foothills with their partner. Every day I woke to sunshine and wildlife out the windows. Every evening I went to bed full from the conversations, the connecting with Nora and their partner, Josh. Full. As the evening of the last night together slipped into the day of my departure I didn’t want to leave. Yes, I’m a greedy bastard. I’ll admit it.
Nora stopped by to spend a few more hours with me before I had to summon an Uber to the airport. We did a tarot reading. We stretched on the rug. We took a walk to a nearby park. It was time to say goodbye and I cried. As Nora turned the key in the engine, I retreated to the bathroom to fix my muddled eye makeup.
Tidied, I took a deep breath and hailed an Uber.
Five minutes later a crimson van rolled into the driveway. I set the house alarm, shut the door and wheeled my bag to the rear. He intercepted me with a broad smile, and soon we were on the road. It’s a thirty-five or so minute journey. But, what transpired will forever bring a sparkle to my heart and mind. He remarked what a glorious day it was. He complimented the trees in my neighborhood, to which I responded, “I love trees. I ask their permission before I trim a branch.”
To which he responded something like, “They are ancient spirits.” Then he relayed a story told to him at a Zen Buddhist retreat years ago in Hawaii. It was that we never ask a space, a room, a building, a place permission before we enter, but we should. We should never take for granted the spirit of a place, the unseen, that occupy the space full-time and might not be receiving guests.
We spoke of Ram Dass and then he mentioned a person named Alan Watts. He told me of his father’s passing in December. I told him of my father’s, too, and that I’d been honored to be there when he died. I shared the story of the dream I had the night before and he told me about his morning. Yes, just that morning before the sun had risen, he warmed his car and turned to the passenger seat to find his father there. His father had lived a full life but his son, this tender man driving me to DIA, had regrets. He spoke with his father for the next forty-five minutes, first apologizing for not spending more time with him. His father told him that was not important, that he loved him so much and was extremely proud of the man he had become. Then he told me his father’s last words before he exhaled for the last time in human form. They were, “The only thing that matters is the love. Just love. Nothing else is important.”
Soon the driver, Uber-Buddha pulled to the curb nearest Delta ticketing. He hurried from the van, placed my bag on the sidewalk and hugged me with both arms, saying a hearty, “Aloha!”
I smiled right down to my soul as I crossed through the automatic doors.
The flight to Seattle was unremarkable. And that, my friends, is a miracle in and of itself sometimes.
As I collected my luggage from the carousel in Seattle, I summoned an Uber. There was no way I could be as lucky as I’d been earlier. I set my expectations ankle-high. If you’ve never been to SeaTac, the ride share parking area is organized chaos. The lack of a strong cellphone connection only adds to the frenzied search to pair car with passenger, like speed dating for introverts. Soon, though, we found each other, my ride home and me.
He drove a black SUV and before we’d even exited the airport parking garage, I knew I was in the presence of a hero, his family’s tall tree. You see, he grew up in Afghanistan. His mother was an English teacher. Learning English wasn’t enough for him. He soon learned a grand-total of fifteen different languages. After 9/11 occurred, the United Nations were seeking help from people like him, polyglot-heroes. He took a job with them. A few years later, he joined the United States military to help fight terrorism in Afghanistan. He met a girl. They had two children, two precious daughters. Then he was called to Florida to serve. The military and State Department assured him it wouldn’t be long until his wife, his mother, and his two daughters would be able to join him in Jacksonville.
But then Covid happened. He worked and worked and worked, saving every nickel to send to his family back in Afghanistan. He continued to contact the State Department and the military pleading his case to have his family join him. He was told on stark white letterhead in business-format that it would take some time, but progress was being made.
Then the United States military pulled out of Afghanistan.
Thousands of miles away from his family, he encouraged his mother, wife and kids to go to the airstrip and remain there until they procured a flight out of the country. Those images haunt me to this day; the people grasping what they could to pull themselves up and into the military aircraft. He prayed to God that his family would push forward towards the airstrip fence and be seen and helped.
He was behind the wheel of his Uber when he heard about the suicide bomber that took out over a hundred souls crouched along the fence line, the same place he’d asked God to bring his precious family members. It would be hours before he heard they were all safe. And that’s when his anger towards God for not rescuing his family turned to awe. He told me that God knows the right time and the right place.
He researched and found that Seattle has great children’s hospitals, a mild climate, and an economy where people willing to work long hours can earn money. He drove across the country, his every possession stored in the belly of a U-Haul trailer. He’s only lived in Seattle a few months and feels his family, his daughters in particular, will thrive in the mild, humid weather.
After he admitted he was angry with God, then had the perspective shift, he felt more determined than ever. He’s connected with a group that evacuates families for a price; what he described as a ‘bribe.’ His military brothers, local friends, and many others have sworn they are effective and trust-worthy. He is saving up four-thousand dollars, and is nearly there. To this end he pinches every penny and drives somewhere between 14-18 hours a day.
As we neared our end point, I told him he should write his story and share it. He should run for Governor or become a professor of Middle East languages at the University of Washington. And I promised him I would pray each morning until the angels he needs bring his final dream to fruition.
Two humans that matter.
Two miracles.
Two Uber rides.
My soul forever changed.
And now, friends, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to feed Mr. Cooper.