I just returned from the bi-annual retreat of the Catholic Writers Guild at the beautiful St. Francis Retreat Center in DeWitt, Michigan. It was wonderful—on so many different levels that it deserves to be the center of attention in this post, but it isn’t. Something happened before I arrived, 30,000 feet or so above some state or other between Atlanta and Detroit.

First (and this is not irrelevant), I’m not one of those people who go jetting around the country and beyond all the time. They’re more organized for travel and not likely to have anxiety fits about every detail as I do. I try to get everything just right, leave the petsitter exact instructions, confirm for myself repeatedly that I’ve done everything Delta says I should do—and even then I worry. So, unable to use a cellphone to check—again—that my darlings are all right (my petsitter is amazingly tolerant), I decided to use the in-flight wi-fi service and send an email. That meant I had to use a credit card. To my utter horror, I discovered that my wallet was missing from my handbag!

I sat writhing in an agony of helplessness, fear, and silent prayer: Please help me to trust in you. The wallet had been lost, stolen, or left behind. I suspected the latter because in my cleverness to pack so as to check through TSA quickly, I’d decided to use my passport rather than have to remove my driver’s license from my wallet—which stays parked on the shelf above the holy water font by the garage door. But I wasn’t sure. It could have fallen from my bag while I rummaged around in search of something; far less likely, it could have been stolen. (If I have trouble finding it via rummaging, why should a thief find it any easier?) I had nothing to identify myself except my passport. I had no license, no credit or debit cards, no insurance card, and not one penny.

There was nothing to do but wait to be able to use the cellphone and call my petsitter to find out if the wallet was there. I had one more flight to catch and it would be a tight connection. The moment I could use my phone, I called her—she wasn’t there!—and I left a pitiful message: “Please call me the moment you get this so I’ll at least know if my wallet is safe at home—though I don’t know what I’ll do if it is or isn’t.”

A couple sat next to me. After a moment, the woman said to me, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing your message. Don’t worry. Your wallet can be overnighted to you.” But what about the meantime, I said, what will I do? Someone is supposed to meet me in Lansing to shuttle to the retreat center, but I don’t even know them. She assured me it would be all right. And then I worried about the tight connection due to the delayed departure from Atlanta. “I don’t know if I’ll have time to make the connection, much less call the person who’s shuttling.” And no wallet. No credit card. No cash.

The lady opened her bag and handed me a $50 bill. And then she said, “We’re very familiar with the Detroit airport and we’ll find out which gate has your Lansing flight and guide you there.” She refused to tell me her name or give me her address so that I could send her a check. But finally, as they left me at the gate for my Lansing flight, she handed me a card with her email address asking me to let her know that I got where I needed to go. It has her address on it, and I’ve just sent her a check. I’ll also send her a link to this post when it goes up.

Thank you, Stephanie!