We didn’t know we were preserving a culture—we were just living it
Sometimes the first miracle of a pilgrimage is not reaching the holy place. It is simply making it onto the airplane.
People keep asking me how Italy was, and every time they do, I smile—not because I do not know what to say, but because I honestly do not know where to begin.
Do I begin with standing only a few rows away from Pope Leo XIV? With touching the tomb of St. Benedict, praying in the cave of St. Michael, or walking through the beautiful streets of Assisi?
Or do I begin at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, staring at a departure board and wondering whether I was going to make it to Italy at all?
Every pilgrimage has a beginning. Ours began with canceled flights, missed connections, rising panic, unexpected expenses, family patience being tested almost immediately, and a whole lot of grace.
Welcome to Creole Chaos & Grace.
Our little pilgrimage crew was coming together in a way only God could have organized.
Mama and Mr. John packed up the car in Cloutierville and drove west toward Dallas. Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan were scheduled to fly from Shreveport. I was flying from New Orleans.
The plan seemed simple: meet in Dallas, connect with our tour group, and fly together to Rome.
Easy enough.
Except God, or perhaps American Airlines, had apparently prepared a different itinerary.
I arrived at the New Orleans airport with plenty of time to spare. I was already mentally in vacation mode: perhaps a cup of coffee, a little people-watching, and then Italy.
Instead, I looked at the departure board and saw the word every traveler dreads:
CANCELED.
Not delayed. Not boarding late. Canceled.
Apparently, American Airlines had “helpfully” rebooked me onto an earlier flight. There was only one small problem: nobody told me.
So, naturally, I missed the flight I did not even know I was supposed to be on.
I went to the counter assuming there had to be some reasonable way to fix the situation. The agent was kind, but kindness did not change the fact that there were no other American Airlines flights that could get me to Dallas in time for our international departure.
I called customer service. The representative searched for alternatives and then offered the most memorable suggestion of the day:
“Well, you could always rent a car and drive.”
Drive?
Ma’am, have you looked at a map? Do you know how far New Orleans is from Dallas? Our flight to Italy leaves in six hours.
I do not remember what expression crossed my face, but internally I was somewhere between uncontrollable laughter and complete panic.
Years in emergency management have taught me that you are allowed one moment to panic.
Then you solve the problem.
I took a breath, looked around the terminal, and asked myself one question: Who might still be flying when everyone else is not?
Then it came to me.
I grabbed my suitcase and started power-walking across the airport like Wilma Flintstone trying to get the family car moving.
When I reached the Southwest counter, I practically pleaded, “Please tell me you have something going to Dallas.”
The agent looked at the screen and said, “We have one seat.”
One single seat, leaving in less than an hour.
I handed over my credit card so quickly that I am fairly certain I said, “Charge it!”
It was one of the best impulse purchases I have ever made.
Just as I began to think everything might work out, my phone rang.
It was Aunt Lynn. Their flight had also been canceled.
This is probably the point where I owe her an apology.
I had used nearly all my emotional energy managing my own travel disaster, so my empathy tank was running on fumes. Instead of offering comfort, I went directly into logistics mode.
“Well, y’all can drive.”
Not my finest moment.
At the time, though, I was simply trying to keep all the pieces moving. Thankfully, Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan did exactly that. They found an Uber driver willing to take them all the way from Shreveport to Dallas, which is remarkable when you really think about it.
Sometimes the answer to your prayers does not arrive where you expected it.
Mine arrived at Dallas Love Field.
While storms were disrupting flights into DFW on American Airlines, Southwest Airlines was still moving. I made it to Dallas shortly before the weather shut everything down and climbed into yet another Uber for the trip from Love Field to DFW.
By then, it was becoming clear that this pilgrimage was being unofficially sponsored by Uber.
When I finally reached DFW, I had arrived at what can only be described as Airport Lounge O’Clock.
I was not interested in shopping, sightseeing, socializing, or making new friends. I wanted a comfortable chair, a little silence, and a Cuba Libre.
The first one disappeared rather quickly.
Not long afterward, Mama texted to say they had arrived. Then came another message: Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan were there too.
I felt enormous relief, followed almost immediately by guilt. While I had been flying to Dallas, they had spent hours riding across Texas in an Uber.
That realization made Cuba Libre number two—and possibly number three—feel entirely reasonable.
Once everyone had finally made it to DFW, we began to believe the hardest part was behind us.
Then the delay notifications started.
First, the flight was pushed back a little. Then it was pushed again. Every few minutes, another hopeful-looking message arrived, each one moving our departure farther into the evening.
The mood in the airport gradually changed. People stopped smiling, stopped checking their watches, and stopped pretending everything was going to be fine.
Eventually, the storm won.
At approximately 7:30 that evening, we were notified that our flight would not leave that night. Our new departure time was 12:35 the following afternoon.
We had officially lost the first day of our pilgrimage.
This may have been the most personally offensive event of the entire day.
I immediately called the Grand Hyatt located at the airport and found three available rooms. They were convenient, within walking distance, and exactly what we needed.
I had them.
Then someone distracted me. I do not even remember who or why. The call disconnected, and when I called back, the rooms were gone.
Just like that.
At that point, I laughed because there was really nothing else left to do.
Eventually, we found rooms at a Marriott outside the airport.
That meant another Uber, another check-in, and another adjustment to the plan.
On paper, it looked as though we had lost something. We had missed a day in Italy, spent money we had not expected to spend, and exhausted ourselves before the pilgrimage had officially begun.
Looking back, however, I think we gained something too.
Somewhere between the canceled flights, surprise expenses, missed connections, long rides, airport cocktails, and family members trying not to lose patience with one another, the pilgrimage had already started.
Not in Rome.
Not in Assisi.
Not beside the tomb of a saint.
It began when each of us decided we were not giving up.
Before we ever set foot in Italy, I was reminded that sometimes the first act of faith is not kneeling in prayer. Sometimes it is simply taking a breath, adjusting the plan, and saying:
“Let’s try again tomorrow.”
✈️ Flights canceled: 2
🚗 Unexpected Uber rides: 3
🍹 Cuba Libres: Enough
📱 Delay notifications: Too many to count
😂 Family patience tested: Immediately
🙏 Grace received: Exactly when we needed it
Before we entered a basilica, touched the tomb of a saint, or walked through ancient streets, God reminded me of something I have spent years teaching through emergency management: plans are important, but flexibility is essential.
Pilgrimages, like life, rarely unfold exactly as we imagine. The destination may remain the same, but the road can change without warning.
The delays and detours were not interruptions to the pilgrimage. They were the first lesson of it.
Sometimes grace does not remove the chaos. Sometimes it simply gives us the strength, creativity, and people we need to keep moving through it.
✈️ Coming Next
Creole Chaos & Grace — Part Two:
The Crossing—and the Back Row We Claimed for the Rest of Italy
