Giving thanks at 30,000 feet

By Anna Seip

We flew out of town for the week of Thanksgiving—me, my husband, my 2-year-old daughter and my 12-year-old son. This was not the norm for our family. The kids had never flown before, and I’d boarded a plane only once since 9/11. (That flight had ended in a panic attack and a trip to the emergency room as soon as I disembarked.) Flying just didn’t feel safe to me anymore, and I’d resigned myself to a lifetime of car travel. My husband didn’t like flying, either, and traveled by plane only when his job required it. Swayed by the offer of four free tickets from my father, however, we set out for a coast-to-coast adventure.

“Just remember,” Dad said, “it’s safer than driving a car.”

Turns out, the plane ride was a piece of cake. Why had I been so worried? We arrived at our destination with no problem, and my dad was thrilled to see us. We visited my grandparents in the nursing home, ate lots of turkey with extended family, hit the Black Friday sales and promised to return next year to do it all over again. After three fun days, it was time to go home.

For the return trip, the kids acted liked seasoned travelers, removing their shoes at the security checkpoint before I even had to tell them to. We enjoyed our long layover with a big family dinner at a restaurant in Charlotte’s airport. Just one more flight—only 40 minutes—stood between us and home.

On the plane, the kids slept and I looked through a magazine. My husband talked about Christmas. I only half-listened, absorbed in an article about Oprah. We were minutes from landing – already dreaming of sleeping in our own beds – when the captain made an announcement.

 “We don’t want anyone to panic,” he said, “but we’ve got a flap issue.”

The flaps wouldn’t open on the wings, meaning the plane would have trouble slowing down when it landed. My father had spent 25 years working for the airlines, so I’d flown a lot as a child. And, I’d never heard anything like this.

The flight attendants showed us how crouch into a brace position. They told us to practice opening our seatbelts “real fast.” They pointed out where the exits were. They said there would be emergency personnel on the ground. They said we’d land faster than normal. The plane circled the airport, burning off fuel.

A woman across the aisle started breathing in and out of a paper bag. My son sat next to her with wide eyes. I heard prayers and crying all around me. My husband began repeating the Lord's Prayer. On cue, my two-year-old woke up and started crying.

I looked at my husband and my two children. A feeling of calmness washed over me. There was no time for a panic attack. I was with the three people I loved most in the world. I’d also just spent a week with family I hadn’t seen in years. I thought, “If this is the way I’m supposed to die, then OK. I’m ready.”

I didn’t think about how much money I had in the bank or what kind of car I drove or if my clothes were the right brand. My enemies didn’t enter my mind. There were only thoughts of love–for my family and my friends.

My husband asked for the car keys, so I dug them out of my purse.

“When we land,” he said, “leave the diaper bag, leave your purse. All we need are the keys. I’ll be right behind you with the kids.”

The plane landed, and we taxied along the runway—real fast—for a long time. Once we were safe and stopped, everyone clapped. There would be no need for an emergency exit.

A woman sitting behind me reached between the seats and patted my hand. Only then did I tear up.

Driving home, I called everyone I loved, even though it was 1 a.m. When I talked to my dad, he just kept repeating the words, “oh no, oh no.”

“Now you’re never gonna fly again,” he said.

“Actually,” I said, “I think I will. I’m not scared anymore.”

I keep the flight number—2371—written on a small piece of paper in my purse. Those numbers keep me thankful, all year long.

Anna Seip is a writer and editor who hopes to fly again someday.

Enjoyed this article? Share it with a friend!