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I've spent the past several days traveling. I've flown through the streets of Chicago in a taxi, and I've taxied down the runways of the Midwest on a plane.
A flight from Monroe to Dallas to Chicago was changed from Monroe to Dallas to Knoxville to Chicago. In Knoxville, I waited to retrieve my carry-on from the valet cart, so I could, just a moment later, put it back on the same cart and get back on the same plane to carry me to Chicago.
It was in Chicago, at the rental car desk, that I learned, to my surprise, that my drivers license had expired. A month ago.
I felt for the young man behind the counter who appeared to be clicking random keys on his keyboard, while mumbling every few minutes, "Hmm, let's see what I can do here." He never actually said, "There's nothing I can do. You are not leaving here with one of our cars." Rather, to his obvious relief, I soon surrendered and asked, "Can you kindly call me a cab?"
Over the next few days I climbed in and out of nearly a dozen different taxis. I chatted with drivers from Pakistan, France, Indonesia, Greece, Mexico, and others of unknown origins. We talked of family, faith, religion, gun control, the economy, the country.
The entire adventure was either serendipitous or annoying, depending upon your perspective. And therein lies the lesson. We often grumble over the interruptions to our carefully planned agendas. "Without all of these interruptions," we somewhat inauthentically suggest, "I could get my work done."
But here's the thing. Life is discovered in the interruptions.
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