The Time I was Almost Arrested in an International Airport
See that girl in the hat and scarf?
She's bad news, people.
Let's break down yesterday:
Well, first, I have to rewind to Thursday night. Ok, so Adam gets his travel itinerary to NOLA at 10 PM. He leaves Friday morning at 6 AM. Ready: get off your butt and pack! Thursday night, we threw as much stuff together as we could and found the pillow around midnight. Fast forward: it's 6 AM, Friday morning. We have to leave the house by 6:30AM to make it to the airport on time. It's 17 miles away. Ok, pack some more. Eat some yogurt. Drive drive drive. Aaaaand, goodbye to Adam.
Now, it's just me and all the leftovers. Oh baseball. You are unkind sometimes, even when you're trying to be kind. But enough thinking. Get to work. Ok, I need to return the car, wait first, clean the car. Car wash. Pack even more. Don't forget to take the bottles over 3 oz out of the carry-on. Clean. Laundry. Can't leave the McGough's with unwashed bedding! Get ready. Meanwhile, Mrs. McGough is downstairs cooking me breakfast. She delivers yet another beautiful meal. Exhale. Pack a little more, still. Ok, now, leave. Return the car. Wait, scratch that. Meet Christian first at the DoubleTree and pile luggage into his trunk. He's driving me to Fort Lauderdale International Airport later this evening. Now drive to the Lane's house and return the car. Channing and the girls drive behind me and swoop me up from my drop-off. Give security the key. Finally, I can see the light at the end of that impossibly long tunnel. Exhale. All's left: hang out, shop, and kill time before Christian meets us to pick me up. That, I can do. I bought a hat. Marissa returned clothes. Channing got a smoothie. Lara is the cutest pregnant girl alive. We're having fun. Then the clouds come.
Christian shows up. It's 4:30 and my flight leaves at 6:35. We're an hour away from Fort Lauderdale. Perfect timing. But the clouds. Oh no the clouds. Rain. Traffic. Lots of traffic. Lots of rain. This could complicate things. It does. We arrive at FLL at 5:37. Give or take. I have 12 minutes to check my bags. Remember: you must show up 45 minutes before your flight to guarantee your bags fly with you. Ok, so my bags might not make it. I've endured worse. The line isn't so bad though. Gosh, but there's only two people working it. Fart. It's 5:53 when I check in. The machine dings real loud, letting everyone around me and their mother know that Kendall Conley is late! Ohhhhh….everyone stares. I'm annoyed. Yes. I am. I gulp a deep breath. I can feel the sweat begin to bead up under my scarf. I shouldn't have worn it. Ah, but I get so cold on the plane! Yeah, definitely sweating now. My bags are on the carousel. Good. Hustle down the escalator. Sweat a little more. I meet a girl who's also late…albeit, she's later than me! Hey, it's not so bad after all. She grabs my hand and says, "Follow me." You're not Jesus, but in this case, I will. She taps shoulders and bats her lashes. Next thing I know, we're 8 people up in line. Yes. I'm gonna make it after all. I hand the security lady my phone to scan my boarding pass. She takes a long look at my ID aaaaaand, now I'm packing stuff onto the security bag checker thing. Shoes off. Ah man, I'm wearing sandals. If I contract a wart or fungus, I'll be so angry! Stand on your tiptoes Kendall. Computer out. Hat off. No liquids over 3 oz. in my bags! Nice. I'm such a good packer. Wait, what's that noise? Oh, the security metal detector is broken??? It beeps and beeps. And nobody's even in it. This is impossible!! Ahhhhh! So…what…let a potentially-blood-sucking-terrorist through, hoping he's not, or hold up the line until it's fixed? Hold up the line. Duh. But gosh darnit! More sweat. In any other situation, I'd of course use my better judgement to rationalize the need for the machine to be fixed. But I'm mad. This is all my fault, and I want to scream. I HAVE A FLIGHT TO CATCH, PEOPLE! FIGURE IT OUT. I don't say it, but I think it, so I'm just as guilty. Kendall, that's not nice. Calm down. Ok. I have 20 minutes until my flight leaves, it'll be fine. Wait for it. Wait for it. Machine's fixed! A large mass of people funnel through the security check. Including me. Nothing metal on this girl…now run and get your bag!
"MA'AM IS THIS YOUR BAG."
You've got to be kidding me. Yes, of course it's my bag. Who else in my vicinity would carry something so yellow and florally. Certainly not the men in front of or behind me. I again don't say those words, but crazier things are flying around my head. And mostly none of them are wrapped in grace. Now what?
"MA'AM, COME OVER HERE. DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING SHARP IN THIS BAG?"
Uh, no? Well, does a razor count? I might have left one of those in there by accident? Oh, I think there's a nail file. Come on though! Really? I have a bright yellow bag and there's no chance anyone with a brain would carry that loud bag if they had something to hide. It's YELLOW for Pete's sake.
"MA'AM ARE THESE YOURS? DID SOMEONE PUT THESE IN YOUR BAG?"
OH NO.
THE BULLETS.
THE 90 ROUNDS OF BULLETS.
ADAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Begin: panic.
"I, uh…golden birthday…husbands…they're his….good wife…wanted to make him happy…they're gold…golden birthday…24 on the 24th…he has an AR…we both have 9s…been traveling for 6 weeks…different house every week…so much travel…I forgot…living in suitcases…6 weeks…it was a mistake…accident…flight leaves in 9 minutes, I know. Please don't arrest me.
I'm mumbling, fumbling, searching for words. I can barely talk and I'm filled to the top of my new hat with embarrassment. Everyone's looking again. And their moms. I'm not a criminal! The head of security is here. She's calling the cops. Yes, you may have my ID. I hand it to her. She's making a report. I tell her all my information. The bullets confuse her. I can feel her eyes. They're piercing me. I swear, I am NOT a terrorist. AND WOMEN SHOOT GUNS TOO! She can't figure out how many rounds I have. I reach over to show her and she screams, "Don't touch that!!!" I'm terrified.
Here they come. 3 policemen. Handcuffs. Please don't put me in handcuffs. Did I mention the tears? Oh, the tears. If you know anything about me, it's easy to picture my face.
"Ma'am (I'm getting sick of that word. I never get sick of that word), owning ammunition isn't illegal. You're not going to jail. You just can't take them with you onto the plane. I'm shaking my head. Of course it's not illegal to have ammo! DUH, Kendall! But it is a federally prohibited item, so either you'll have to check this whole carry-on under the plane, or you'll have to discard your NINETY bullets. Wait, what time is your flight? It leaves in 4 minutes. Hold on, I'll be right back."
Scott, my officer-friend and saving grace - sprints to my gate and asks them to hold the plane. He comes back with the news, "We have one minute to re-scan your bag and be at the gate. Security: RE-CHECK THIS WOMAN'S BAG!" In the meantime, he whispers over to me that security should've been re-checking my bag the whole time he was at the gate. He blames them for taking three minutes instead of one. I remind him that definitely, this is all my fault, but his help and kindness spill over me and now I'm crying in gratitude. Well, some. My gate has to be closed by now. And other tears are coming down because of that fun fact. Alas, my bag is in my arms and Officer Scott and I are race-walking to Gate B4. Adam's birthday presents: gone. 90 rounds all for nothing. I can't think of how much money that is. I told Scott he could practice with them. He laughed. And we're still race-walking. I can see the gate…and I'm begging for a little victory. Scott perks up, "Are we good?" He's talking to the flight attendant and she's nodding her head. Now I'm shaking his hand. Saying goodbye. Scanning my boarding pass. It's 6:29 and I'm walking down the jetway. Hallelujah!
I'm the last one on. That's a given. I still have tears falling from my eyes. A mixture of so many emotions. There's one seat open and I slide in. I try not to make eye contact with my fellow passengers. If I tell them what just happened, they'll think I'm a terrorist. Ok, well, just look out the window and no one will see you. I look out. Lo and behold…MY BAGS ARE RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!!!! Oh my gosh, this nightmare has made a severe turn! Not only have I made my flight, but so have my bags!!! I take a picture. More tears. I'm so happy. I'm sweating like a pig. Then I think of him. Adam. Oh, Adam. I finally check my phone. I've missed who knows how many calls from my worried sick husband. The last he heard from me was a text I sent him when they found the bullets: "The bullets were in my carry-on. I'm going to miss my flight. Might go to jail." I finally call him and instantly upon hearing his voice, I break down. Crying crying crying. Explaining to him in brevity, what happened. And now, I'm crying over the fact that in all the busyness of my day, I never called anyone in NOLA to ask if they'd pick me up from the airport. He tells me about the airport cabs. I shudder (and cry some more) at the thought of taking one. But that's my only choice.
"I can take you home."
I'm dreaming. I look to my right. There's a sweet young woman sitting next to me. I think I hear her say something, and bewildered, I ask her "excuse me?"
"I can take you home."
I'm stunned. I ask her if she's sure. She is. I'm crying again. And now I have a ride. Meanwhile, I'm still on the phone with Adam explaining to him that the woman next to me is taking me home. Well, to the truck. But me and the girl haven't gotten that far yet. I can tell Adam is nervous, but I assure him that everything's ok. I assure him again. I love you, Adam.
Before I know it, Sylia and I have shared a two-hour conversation over a cup of wine, and now we're landing in NOLA. She's a twenty-something attorney, way cute, and the sweetest blessing I could ask for. We grab my bags from baggage claim, and then, I'm in her boyfriend's car and driving to the field. He's unsure of me, I can tell. I mean, his girlfriend offered a ride to a complete lunatic of a stranger…who's been questioned by the head of security, security agents, and three policemen about the bullets in her bag. I tell him the story. We all laugh. And then we're at the truck and saying goodbye.
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It seems to me that I wanted to get back to NOLA so bad that I almost didn't. Still mulling over what I was supposed to take away from my last few hours in Jupiter/Fort Lauderdale, but well, at least I made it. And now, in the comfort of my own NOLA home, I can spend the next bit reflecting on how the Lord used these last six weeks and even the insanity of my last day there, to teach me something about myself, his glory, and the work of his sovereign hand.
Exhale.
Thank you to EVERYONE who's helped us through these last six weeks. It's been an incredible journey, filled with so many different emotions, and Adam and I can't even begin to express our gratitude for everything you've been to us, given to us, and done for us. We are humbled and radically grateful. And hopefully, I gave you a little laugh in return for all you sacrificed for us :)
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Oh yeah. Adam throws tomorrow for the Zephyrs at 1PM CST!
