Hoping for a pleasant flight, I recently boarded a plane from my hometown of Jackson, Mississippi to attend a weekend seminar in Baltimore. Seats filled up quickly and I was forced to take the last vacant seat. Of course, it was the dreaded middle seat.

The woman destined to become one of my seatmates stashed one of her bags under a seat that was designated storage for my bag. I gently told her that I needed a place to put my backpack but she was determined not to part with her extra bag. A flight attendant quickly interceded. The two of them exchanged heated words. People around us began to stare. Suddenly my hopes for a pleasant flight vanished.

My seatmate blurted out, "I'm a relief worker and I've only had seven hours of sleep this week. I'm just asking you to help me!” The flight attendant snapped back, "A lot of us have not had any sleep. You have to move your bag!” Finally, another passenger found a way to make room for my seatmate's bag in an overhead bin close by.

I slid into my seat and tucked my backpack into the newly freed space. I sat there for a moment in silence as I attempted to settle the frazzled energy left behind by the conflict. Suddenly, I heard the soft voice beside me say, "I was not trying to be rude to you. I was frustrated because the flight attendant would not help me.”

I turned to the woman sitting beside me. I looked into her big blue eyes and said, "you've had a hard week, haven't you?” Tears started rolling down her face and she began telling me bits and pieces about her experience as a relief worker in Mississippi.

I learned that the woman works as a therapist in Baltimore and that her company sent her to Biloxi, Mississippi to work as a case worker for victims of Katrina. She told me that she had been in Third World countries and this situation was far worse than anything she had ever experienced. According to her, there was very little order and people were walking around with guns and willing to shoot. She didn't sleep while she was in Biloxi because she felt she had to be on guard at all times. She said the people on the coast are angry and hopeless and that much of the area is demolished. She remarked on how the media is not reporting the whole reality of the situation in this area. Sh

e repeatedly said, "I don't know what those people are going to do.” Her sense of hopelessness was heartbreaking.

All I could do was listen to her share her story. I thanked her on behalf of all Mississippians for traveling from Baltimore to a state that offered her nothing but a tent, a sleeping bag and chaos. More tears fell. Over and over she said to me, "I'm so ready to get home. I want my apartment, my shower and my bed.” I suspect what she really wanted was to feel safe again.

After sharing this part of her life with me, she told me that she was going to sleep. I watched her curl up by the window on the plane. I was grateful to know that she was finally in a place that allowed her to give in to her exhaustion.

As the plane landed, she woke up. I asked her if she had a good support system at home. She assured me that she did. We wished each other well as we parted ways. As I walked away, I realized the dreaded middle seat was not so bad on this flight. I felt I served this woman in some way by showing her compassion, witnessing her tears and sharing her pain. Her big blue eyes will forever remain etched into my memory. I know her eyes have seen horrors in the Gulf Coast area that I have only heard about.

Let us give thanks to all of the rescue and relief workers as well as the volunteers that have left their homes and families to offer their time, energy and talents to assist in the recovery process in the Mississippi Gulf Coast area. Please hold them in your hearts and prayers. They are our unknown heroes and angels. They really are.

(c) 2006 Beverly Keaton Smith

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