The Too-Friendly Skies
by Camerin Courtney
January 05, 2005

He looked French, and anyone who knows me well knows that French men pretty much have me at bonjour.

He also was standing at the end of what appeared to be my line at Southwest gate 13 in Houston's Hobby airport. I was returning home after visiting friends in Texas for the weekend. When I asked him if this was the "A" line, he smiled and assured me it was. Moments later we struck up the casual chit-chat of strangers waiting for a delayed flight. As we talked, I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring, was nicely dressed, and appeared to be about five to ten years older than me. Perfect.

We talked easily about our respective jobs, travel, and recent world events. Our conversation made the hour-long delay fly, and next thing I knew we were boarding the plane.

Since Southwest has open seating, he asked me if I wanted to sit by him. I happily agreed—after he voluntarily helped me lug my bag into the overhead bin. Hmm, polite too.

As the flight took off, our conversation turned to religion. The topic proved interesting as he seemed to be a secular Jew, and a self-professed "open" one at that. He also seemed to have only a vague grasp of the foundational truths of Christianity. I talked some about grace, forgiveness, and the difference between religion and a relationship with Jesus. He seemed intrigued and expressed admiration of my strong beliefs.

Though I knew our faith differences made this a no-go for a relationship, throughout our conversation I became increasingly aware of his hands, the shape of his mouth, the stubble on his face. I was a bit startled by these noticings, and reasoned it was partly due to the proximity of sitting next to him in our side-by-side seats. As the minutes turned to hours, I became more and more drawn to him—emotionally, intellectually, physically. I couldn't ever remember feeling such instant chemistry and being so holistically drawn to someone so quickly. I wondered if he felt any of the electricity I sensed in the air.

As we neared the final hour of our flight, he mentioned the need for a nap before we landed. Before taking off his glasses and leaning back in his chair, he said, "I'm very glad we met. I've really enjoyed talking with you." I'm sure I blushed a bit as I returned the sentiment. He extended his hand to shake mine, and I noticed we held on just a bit longer than necessary. "See you in Chicago," he said, then leaned back and closed his eyes. I retrieved the book I'd brought along and began reading, placing my elbow on the armrest between us, which made our arms touch. Neither of us pulled away.

After a few moments, during which I'd reread the same paragraph about four times and still didn't quite know what it said, he stirred and said, "What's happening here?"

Wanting to make sure I knew what I hoped he was talking about, I said, "What do you mean?"

"This �?here," he said, motioning to the two of us. "I've never felt such a quick connection to someone. You're so easy to talk to; you've even had me talking about my nieces and nephews. I feel so close to you. Do you feel this?"

Inside my head: Yes! Yes! Yes! Outloud a polite, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"I don't want to sound too forward, but I'd really like to hold your hand," he said. Again I blushed and drowned out the shouting in my head for a simple, "I'd like that."

So there we sat, two people who'd met mere hours earlier, who'd talked about everything from politics to religion to our families, hands entwined, sparks flying. We talked about getting together for dinner while he was in town. I didn't think I'd found lasting love, I mean he was a non-Christian who lived half a country away. But I envisioned a nice meal together, possibly a few periodic e-mails in the future.

In a moment of shared silence, I muttered a wordless, OK, God, I know this is a bit fast. Help me here if this is off at all. I need your wisdom.

Despite the obvious chemistry, I sated my inner cynic by asking, "Do you meet women like this all the time?"

He straightened up and looked me square in the eyes and said, "No, this is very unique. You must know this �?is special." I smiled, blushed, and looked away.

Suddenly I found myself saying, "So, you're not like married or anything are you?" I laughed. So did he as he said, "Just a little bit."

Whoa.

"Um, what?" I stammered, hoping this was some sort of sick humor. "You're joking, right? You're not married, right?"

"No, I am married."

I pulled my hand away quickly. "You're married. You're married. You're married," I repeated aloud as the truth sunk in and the mood shifted completely.

"Whoa, a wall just went up," he noted, his face showing his bewilderment then comprehension that I'd just shut him down. The moment was over. The electricity was gone.

In its place a flood of emotions rushed in: foolishness, disappointment, emotional whiplash, guilt, anger, sadness.

"Wouldn't your wife kind of mind this?" I asked.

"I wasn't really thinking of her. This just felt so right." He explained the rest of the story: His first wife had died suddenly, making him very aware that tomorrow is never a given, making him cling to today's happiness. His current wife of two years was an old friend from high school. Yes, they were happy. No, she probably wouldn't be keen on this.

"This isn't fair to her �?or to me," I asserted, as much to me as to him. He was very apologetic, like he didn't realize this would be such an issue for me. What an underscoring of our spiritual differences!

We stammered our way somewhat awkwardly through the remaining 45 minutes of the flight. He again helped me with my bag, and we walked in silence to the baggage claim area, where we shook hands and I walked away. When I finally was in the privacy of my car, I finally let the slow, hot tears roll down my face. On the drive home I thanked God for his obvious intervention and had a long chat with him about all my conflicting emotions.

Over the next two days I was very aware that the guy was still in town, in possession of my business card, and thus my e-mail address and phone number. Part of me wanted him to contact me; the rest of me reviled that part. I knew he wasn't a Christian. I knew he was married. I knew we couldn't have a relationship. But I was still attracted to him and drawn by our unusual, instant click. I know God intervened before I got too hurt, but it was still difficult to experience something resembling the kind of instant chemistry with a stranger we all secretly dream about, only to go home crushed hours later. In fact, instead of enjoying more tingles and scintillating conversation over dinner two nights later, I showed up for my usual Tuesday night volunteer gig with an English as a Second Language class, where I helped people from Mexico and Eastern Europe with vocab words about the bathroom.

A few lessons about our "chance" meeting became clear with hindsight. As much as some sexual temptation is visible a mile away—you're in a serious dating relationship, you're walking into a steamy R-rated movie—some of it's very sneaky. It wasn't until I was relaying the situation to a friend and she replied, "That guy would've had an affair with you," that I realized the full extent of what I'd walked away from. My rendezvous on the plane also reminded me that we always need to be on guard, and close enough to God to hear his whispered cautions to us. Also, even though doing the right thing is often much less interesting and fun—it's still the right thing, is still the obedience God requires of us, and is still for our greater good.