Chicago, or: How I Learned That Three Minutes Is Apparently a Spiritual Test

I missed my connection by three minutes.

Three.

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I have never missed a connection in my life. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t even annoyed. I simply walked up to the gate in Chicago and discovered that my plane and my luggage had already fully committed to their next destination—without me.

So there I stood. Calm. Curious. Slightly impressed by this new life experience.

United Airlines, I will say, was delightful. Friendly. Professional. Helpful. Within minutes, I had a hotel booked and instructions to catch a shuttle. Simple enough.

Except… it was winter in Chicago.
And my coat was in my luggage.
Which was now somewhere over Iowa.
And I was still wearing a boot for my healing broken foot.

No problem, I told myself. I am fine. I am resilient. I am Midwestern.

I stood outside waiting for the shuttle and quickly learned something important: Chicago time and South Dakota time are not the same thing.
In South Dakota, ten minutes is ten minutes.
In Chicago, ten minutes is more of a suggestion. A feeling. A vibe.

Eventually, roughly forty-five minutes later, the shuttle arrived. I squeezed on with what appeared to be half the passengers from United, all of us bonded by mild trauma and shared exhaustion. Of course, I had chosen the hotel that was the furthest possible distance from the airport. Forty-five minutes later (again), we arrived.

It was now 9:00 p.m.

Midwest nice activated, I joined the line at the front desk, where the gentleman checking us in was… not thrilled. Not thrilled with the crowd. Not thrilled with the hour. Possibly not thrilled with life.

I grabbed my room key and began the long journey, on one good foot and one boot, to what turned out to be the absolute furthest room from the front desk. When I saw the location, a tiny voice whispered, This feels like a scene from a horror movie. I ignored it.

Inside the room, I reached for the light switch by the bed.

Nothing.

Tried another lamp.

Also nothing.

No problem, I thought. I don’t need light. I just need to plug in my phone and sleep.

You already know where this is going.

No electricity.
On the entire wall by the bed.
At all.

So I put my boot back on, again, and hobbled back to the front desk. There was a bit of a language barrier, but eventually the desk clerk understood and asked, very seriously, if I had sat on the bed.

“No.”

Had I used the toilet?

“Yes.”

At this point, his eyes rolled so hard I’m fairly certain he saw his own future. He muttered something that sounded a lot like damn it, grabbed his keys, and said, “Come. I have to check.”

As if I might be… lying about the lack of electricity?
Sir. I am tired, hungry, limping, and coatless. I assure you, I do not have the energy for fiction.

He checked the room.

“Oh,” he said.
No apology. Just… oh.

Then: “We have no more rooms.”

Perfect.

It was nearing 10:00 p.m. I had been in airports since 10:45 that morning. I had missed supper. My luggage had made the connection. I had not.

And then, miraculously, he found me a room.

This one had electricity and lights, which was a much-needed relief. However, it also had a few holes in the bathroom door and a generously sized hole in the sheet, which I decided to view as ventilation. I laughed, a sort of resigned chuckle, at the absurdity of it all. By then, it felt easier to find the humor than to fight it.

I ate my remaining M&Ms and half a small bag of corn chips like it was a five-star meal, took a quick shower (thank you, Lord, for the T-shirt I had worn that day), and finally slept.

And through all of it, every delay, every inconvenience, every eye roll, I felt something steady within me.

I wasn’t alone.

I kept telling my husband, “God’s got this,” and I believed it, not because everything worked smoothly, but because I felt accompanied.

In a sea of hurried people and worn-down staff, my heart broke a little at the lack of kindness. I couldn’t change the world that night. But I could offer a thank you. A smile. A moment of grace.

And who knows—maybe that mattered more than I’ll ever know.