Jesie and I walked swiftly through the Pheonix airport to our gate.  Each pulling behind us our matching LowePro camera bag.  Weaving in and out of people, huffing and puffing we arrived at our gate just as our group, A48, was boarding.  Perfect timing.  We were flying Southwest and stepped onto the aircraft with one mission: to find two seats together.  We greeted the friendly flight attendant and rounded the corner to look down the cabin of the plane.  My eyes lay on the first pair of open seats.  Row 2.  A window and a middle seat.  Overhead bin space?  Plenty.  Score.  I may or may have not done a fist pump.

Then I noticed who was in the aisle seat of our row.

She wore white slacks, a red sequined top, and a blue blazer.  Her large cross necklace caught my eye; it was red and perfectly matched her red top, red nails, red earrings, and of course, her red lips.  Around her neck she wore a thin white scarf.  And she was about 80-years-old.  Or so I thought.

Clearly seeing how fragile and frail she was, I hated to ask her to move.  But let’s be honest, it was a full flight.  Somebody had to do it, and it might as well be me.

“Ma’am, I think we’d like to sit by you.”

She smiled softly and slowly raised herself up out of her seat.  Ugh, with all these open seats in the back, I hated to ask her, but I just KNEW it’d be worth it… and that’s because I had another motive.

Other than being at the front of the plane and overhead bin space, I wanted to sit by this lady specifically.  You see, I have a very special place in my heart for the elderly.  If you can’t find me at your wedding reception, chances are I’m seated with your grandparents learning “the secret” to marriage.

As Jesie and I got settled, my curious mind couldn’t help but wonder what this little old lady was doing alone and where she was going. “So are you traveling home to Seattle?”

She glanced over at me seated by the window.  Through her bifocal lenses I could see her eyes light up. “Oh no,” she proudly exclaimed, “I’m from Dallas.  I’m going to meet my best, good girlfriend.  She’s my oldest friend.  We met when we were just girls at camp.”

Jesie and I exchanged a glance, smiling at each other with our eyes.

“This is going to be good,” I thought.  “You know, she’s my very best girlfriend,” I quipped nodding towards Jesie.

“Oh well, everyone needs a good girlfriend,” the elderly woman said. “It’s my friend’s 75th wedding anniversary.  I’m traveling on planes, trains, and busses to see her.”

“Busses?!” I exclaimed, rather surprised.  I can hardly figure out the Light Rail in Denver.

“Oh yes, a Greyhound bus.  I’ve taken them before.  It’s easy.  Everyone is so nice to you when you’re on a walker.”

Insert chuckles here.

“I am 94-years-old,” she said.  My jaw hit my tray table.  “84 or 94?” I asked shocked.

“Niiiinty-four” she said with a giggle and learned towards us with a whisper:  “And my boyfriend’s 95!”

94-years-old and she’s traveling across the country, alone, to celebrate the wedding of her best friend that she witnessed 75 years ago.

“Yup, this is why I sat here,” I whispered to Jes knowing that this woman had some good stories to share.

We exchanged names.  Pat was hers.  When we told her our names she said, in exactly the way 94-year-old women do:  “Oh well those are both real pretty names.”

I commented that she was quite the independent and adventurous woman.  She strongly concurred, nodding her head, and went on to tell us some of her life stories.

Like how she was married at 23, but divorced him after 4 years after but remained best friends…  How she couldn’t have children but almost adopted on several accounts…  How laughter really is the best medicine…

She talked a lot about how she met her late husband of 62 years.  “This year would’ve been our 65th anniversary.”  George was his name.  “He was a fighter pilot in the Air Force.”

Hey, I know a thing or two about the Air Force.

“I’ve moved 27 times,” she reminisced.  “The Air Force is a good life.  And, boy, did he look good in his uniform.”

All three of us ladies, ranging from 24 to 94, giggled.  I couldn’t help but think of my Airman in his uniform.  As she told us the story of how she and George met, I pulled out my iPhone from my blue Vera Bradley bag under the seat in front of me.  “We met in a bar,” she continued.  “I remember asking him if he was a good pilot.  ‘Well I’m alive, aren’t I?’ he said.”  She chuckled as she told the story, remembering how funny her husband was.

When the opportunity was right, I extended my iPhone towards her — on the screen was a big photo of me and John, taken just after his captain promotion.  “Doesn’t he look good in his uniform?” I chimed.

“Oh boy! He does.” And without missing a beat she playfully nudged us, “I bet he looks good out of his uniform too!”

We all laughed and she said, “Here I’ll show you my husband.”  And out of her purse, she pulled an old photograph of an Airman with a smile as big as Dallas itself.  I held the wallet-sized photo in the palm of my hand and took in every detail.

And that’s when she said it.

“You know, everyone needs a wartime experience — without the war.”

Instantly my mind flashed to images of John and our war-time experience. But with the war.

John and I have been through a lot.  We’ve both experienced the highs and lows that only love and war can bring: fear, doubt, patience, hope, R&Rs, care packages, prayers, tears, restless nights, faith…  But as a result, we’ve experienced growth, intimacy, war victories, bliss, and hope.  We’ve been together almost three years and nearly half of that time we’ve been in separate states or countries.

I couldn’t help but notice that Pat was wearing red, white, and blue.  “Must be a sign,” I thought.

And in that moment, after hearing only a sliver of this woman’s full life, I realized that maybe, just maybe, 65 years from now, wearing my red, white, and blue, how grateful I’ll be for all the blessings, both in disguise and obvious, that stem from my war-time experience.

Here’s to us, babe, and the start of a brand new semester and many more to come…