At 4 a.m. on December 31st, the airport was eerily quiet except for the occasional sound of luggage wheels clicking against the tile floor. I was dragging my suitcase through TSA when my phone buzzed in my hand. A message from my mom lit up the screen: The power went out on the entire island. That wasn’t exactly surprising, it’s Puerto Rico, after all. But something about it happening right before I boarded my flight felt unsettling, like the world was already reminding me that nothing was ever stable for long. I sighed, pushed through the airport security checkpoint, and hoped the rest of the trip wouldn’t be chaotic.
The flight from MSY to FLL at 6 a.m. was one of those rare, quiet ones. There were barely any people on board, no one was sitting next to me, and the dim blue lights glowing along the sides of the cabin made the whole space feel like a lullaby. It was still dark outside, and the soft, cool air from the mini fan above me brushed against my face. How could I not fall asleep at that moment? The hours passed like a dream.
Then came the second flight at noon: FLL to SJU. This flight was…different. An older couple was seated next to me, and while I had every intention of reading In the Time of the Butterflies, the book my boyfriend had sweetly gifted me, the woman next to me had other plans. As soon as I sat down, she smiled warmly and asked, “Are you visiting or living there?”
“I’m visiting family,” I said, thinking that would be the end of it.
She started talking about her life, about the struggles she had faced, and how despite everything, she had found her purpose through faith. I nodded along and smiled, trying to be polite. But soon, the conversation took a sharp turn. She started talking about Jehovah and how He would save the world from its corruption. She quoted psalms and proverbs, one after another, like she was reciting poetry she had memorized for years. I just sat there listening, too respectful, or maybe too awkwards, to interrupt her or put my headphones back on.
I come from a Catholic family, so to me, God had always been God. But the way she spoke with conviction, urgency, and a different set of beliefs, was new to me. I hadn’t realized until she kept going that we weren’t from the same religion. Her words, though intense, were getting under my skin. She talked about how the world was falling apart, about the corruption of those in power, and how Jehovah would come to fix it all.
Part of me thought it was extreme, but another part—maybe the part that had just read my mom’s message about the blackout—wondered if the woman had a point. The blackout had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t just about losing power; it was a reminder of how fragile things really were. My mind raced with questions I usually didn’t entertain. What if we really were heading toward the end of the world? The entire flight became this religious marathon, and I felt trapped in the conversation. Religious talk makes me anxious sometimes. It’s the way it demands vulnerability, the way it pries open doors you’d rather keep shut. All I wanted was to read my book in peace. Funny enough, the book itself was about religion and corruption. In the Time of the Butterflies couldn’t have been more fitting. Coincidence? Probably not.
By the end of the flight, the couple had given me cookies (which were surprisingly good) and even gifted me their Bible. I accepted it out of respect, but to be honest, I didn’t really want it. The woman explained that she had bought it right before boarding and had planned to give it to whoever sat next to her. Apparently, she thought I was the perfect candidate. She told me I was a great listener, which is ironic because I hadn’t really had a choice. I just didn’t want to be rude.
It was 3 p.m. when we landed and did the ritual clapping for arriving safely. Before we parted ways, we even hugged, and they gave me their phone number, telling me to call or text anytime if I ever wanted to talk about life, the Bible, or if I needed a place to stay. I smiled, thanked them, and left the airport, more exhausted than when I’d started.
When my sister picked me up, I told her the whole story. She laughed and said, “That’s funny you couldn’t not open the door for the Jehovah’s Witnesses.” It was then that I realized, oh, that’s what they were. For some reason, that hadn’t clicked for me until she said it. I laughed it off, but I didn’t tell her how much the woman’s words had actually made me think about God and faith. The fragility of life, the fear of instability, and how belief systems can be both comforting and a source of anxiety. The blackout had already put me in a state of heightened awareness, and her words slipped through the cracks.
Looking back, I sometimes wish I had just kept my headphones on and read my book. I still haven’t had the chance to finish it. But maybe the point wasn’t to read In the Time of the Butterflies on that flight. Maybe the point was to learn that you can’t always control who sits next to you, what they share, or what they leave behind. Conversations like that, as much as they make you anxious or uncomfortable, can also stay with you in unexpected ways. I haven’t opened the Bible they gave me, and I haven’t called the number. But their words still linger, like a story I haven’t finished reading, one that’s waiting for the right time to be revisited.
