I arrive at SeaTac International for an early morning flight to Burbank CA, on my way to shoot some promotional video for a series of upcoming conferences. Once the work is done, I will return home on the evening flight.

My seat assignment is in the rear of the plane, so I ask the agent if there might be a comparable seat further forward, like row 11 maybe? I’m assigned 16A. Well, it is an improvement over row 26. But it gets even better. After everyone appears to be onboard, 16 B and C are still vacant. Is God good or what? Selfishly (and yes, happily) I prepare to spread out and get some work done.

That’s when I see her coming down the aisle.

She’s being carried, wheelchair and all, by two airline personnel. They stop at my row, lift her out of the chair, and help situate her in the aisle seat. She is elderly, obviously severely crippled and extremely frail. Her head is bent forward and it requires no small effort for her to look up; but she does for the two attendants and smiles, “Thank you, that was the best ride ever!”

As we wait for the plane to move away from the terminal, I see her working with the belt, her fingers not quite doing what is needed. “May I help you?” I ask. “No thank you,” she answers. “I think I’ve got it now.” She turns her head slightly, looking up at me as best she can, smiling her appreciation.

“Are you vacationing?” I ask.

“No, I’m going home.”

“And where is home?”

“Bakersfield,” she replies. Her eyes light up as the word rolls off her lips. “I’ve lived in Seattle with my son and four grandchildren for twelve years. I’ve really tried, 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 exchange more pleasantries and she tells me her name is Sally.

As our conversation continues, she tells of both hers and her sister’s husbands having died some years ago. Her sister’s only child, a daughter, had been killed in a car crash, devastating her son, since they had grown up like sister and brother. And Sally has been a cerebral palsy victim all her life. “People often ask if I miss walking,” she says sweetly. “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 ask if she is a Christian. She smiles again and says, “Oh, yes. I love the Lord with all my heart. He has given me so much joy. I have such a wonderful life. I’ve been so blessed!”

I inquire about what things she enjoys doing. “Reading, crossword puzzles and meditating on life,” she replies without hesitation.

“And now you’re going home.”

“Yes. I’m going home and I’m so excited!”

Our plane eventually lands. People crowd into the aisle, impatient to debark. The man and woman in 17D and E, grim looks on their faces, yank carryon bags from the overhead storage just above Sally’s head, pushing forward, not waiting for others to clear in front of them, intent on whatever is next. As I prepare to leave, Sally apologizes for it being inconvenient to get past her. “I’ll be the last one off,” she says, still smiling. “They’ll wait for everyone else, then come get me.”

“Enjoy your new life, Sally,” I say, moving carefully around her into the aisle. “I will,” she replies. And I am caught up in the flow toward the exit door.

I may never see Sally again this side of heaven. But I’m sure heaven was very close in row 16 on that early morning flight to Burbank. Asking if there were any seats further forward turned out to be better than I expected. To share a row of seats I initially coveted for my own self with an incredible woman named Sally, trapped in a body that had not served her well. Ever.

I’m reminded of something I often say (and believe on most days). When routines become magnificent, the daily routine becomes a holy adventure!

My perspective changed that day, quicker than you can say, “Fasten your seat belt.”

It happened on a Tuesday flight to Burbank. It really was “the best ride ever!”