Delayed Riches

Of all the folks who ever graduated from the University of Tennessee, the trophy for being the most clueless about the future goes to me. Armed with a BS in education and teaching ambivalence, on the day after commencement I impulsively moved to Atlanta. it seemed like a decent enough idea, moving to a big and busy nearby city where I had snagged a Tower Place job and a tiny apartment. Moving momentum had a zingy adult flair, but it wasn't long at all until I was wandering alone in the Buckhead wilderness.

~~~~~

During my UT senior year, I had a little job at what was then the happening athletic club. Work featured a revolving door of Knoxville royalty, including a stratospheric mix of former Vol football players. And one of them happened to be the nicest man in town (and possibly the world). His name is George and, somewhere in our mundane chit chat, I mentioned I had not one worthy idea about post-graduation plans.

Without hesitation, George served up advice: "You need to go be a Delta flight attendant. They work hard, but they have a lot of fun." My worldliness was woefully limited, but even I knew that flight attendant jobs were hard to come by. With nothing to lose, I headed to the Knoxville Delta Ticket Office for an application.

George had more advice: "Where it asks if you know anyone who works for Delta, write in Paco on the ramp in Memphis". I did, and with limited hopes, I mailed it to Atlanta. 

As quickly as my application went to Virginia Avenue, a thanks-but-no-thanks form letter came right back. I remember very clearly standing at the Morrill Hall mailboxes and tossing the letter in the trash can.

~~~~~

I was a sad lost soul in a hot Atlanta summer with exactly two friends. There was Pam, a kind and (I thought) worldly 27-year-old co-worker who graciously took it upon herself to show me the Buckhead ropes, and Richard, my upstairs neighbor, an affable divorced guy who had his son every other weekend and spent the rest of his time drinking.

My work world was populated by a smattering of well-heeled Buckhead, of a brand new language and culture to me. They were a pleasant and fascinating lot, and I loved learning their gentile ways and about how elite professionals move about in life. That particular summer, their busy social and philanthropic lives made me feel even lonelier than I was already. 

When September rolled around, ATL's shiny newness had worn off and I found myself in the depths of loneliness, bewildered about what I could do to fix things. On the Wednesday of an exceptionally despairing week, I arrived home to a ringing phone. On the other end was my mother who had opened a letter from Delta Air Lines forwarded from my UT address: I had a flight attendant interview that Friday at 8:30 a.m. 

My interviewer was a kind, older Southern gentleman who might well have been around since the Deland Dusters and Mr. C. E. Woolman. As he read through my paper application in his hands, he gushed about his affinity for the Tennessee Vols, asking me if I was acquainted with old so-n-so at UT (I can't recall who it was, but I did know him--lucky break). 

Suddenly, something on the pages caught his eye and he stopped: "Say, you know Paco on the ramp in Memphis--well, that is great, just great!" I smiled vaguely and mentioned Paco is a great friend of a great friend as my interviewer opened his desk drawer and pulled out a little slip of paper, the golden ticket downtown for a visit with the Delta pre-employment psychiatrist, the legendary Dr. Janos. 

And so, just like that, in what was a true miracle, I was lifted from the abyss of a seemingly hopeless, lackluster solitary life in Atlanta and headed for Delta--which opened the doors of the world for decidedly un-well traveled me. It was a true miracle. While this is but a small anecdote, I have called upon its message countless times over the years: 

Just when things seem dark and impossible, God can dazzlingly throw down a really great life ring from heaven and rescue the perishing. 

While in many ways I now see I was kind of the unprepared master of my own summer disaster a long time ago, this tale popped back up in my head while considering all the uncertainty facing the Class of 2020. Right now, Facebook is a wonderful kaleidoscope of graduating loved ones, many of whom we have known since their childhoods, and assorted others we have happily collected along the way. 

Tonight at 7:00 p.m. we were supposed to be in Furman University's Paladin Stadium, part of the excited congregation gathered to honor Annabelle, her friends, and classmates as they receive their degrees. (And she was set to be sitting next to 1/3 of her Northside Methodist Preschool Carpool #18, which really really brings things full circle). The weather prediction is sunny but cool, and it's easy to predict how much I would cry. 

Like so many in Classes of 2020 all over the place, instead of commencement festivities today, we will eagerly await the deferred ceremony, and look forward to seeing the glorious array of delayed celebratory pictures from all the ones we love. 

I have every confidence that, even in an uncertain world, God still has a trick or two up His sleeve for these students, all of whom have so very much more going on than I ever did as I left UT. 

I am thankful for all the gifts Furman University has given Annabelle. And I am perpetually thankful for my always-friend George up in Knoxville and the very best advice he ever gave anyone, for old so-n-so at UT, and, of course, for the mysterious Paco on the ramp in Memphis.