When Things Don’t Go According to Plan

Blog by Alan Fadling

I had boarded my flight on time in Santiago, Dominican Republic, as had the other passengers. But as our departure time came and went, nothing happened. I noticed the pilots and a flight attendant standing near the front of the plane, all of them on their phones. Something was wrong.

Eventually we were told there was a baggage issue involving someone in the first row of business class. The delay stretched on, and an hour passed before we finally pushed back from the gate.

That hour mattered.

I had ninety minutes to connect through Newark on my way home to Orange County—time that already felt tight. Customs. Baggage claim. Rechecking a bag. Security. A terminal change. Losing an hour meant I would be trying to do all that in about thirty minutes.

As the flight progressed, I could feel my inner posture begin to change. My body tensed. My mind narrowed. I began rehearsing worst-case scenarios. When we landed, I moved quickly, almost urgently, through the airport. Everything felt high-stakes.

Customs moved faster than expected. My bag came early. I decided to take my chances and run for the flight, carrying my bag with me instead of checking it. I sprinted through terminals, up and down escalators, onto the AirTrain, and down one long corridor after another. I haven’t run like that in years, certainly never in business attire.

I arrived at the gate a full six minutes before departure time.

But the door was already closed.

I stood there, out of breath, sweating through my shirt, feeling frustrated and disappointed. I had done everything I could—and still missed the flight.

What surprised me later was not how hard I ran but how quickly I believed that missing the flight was an unmitigated disaster. As if inconvenience were evidence of a cataclysm. As if delay were a sign of God’s absence rather than one of the ordinary features of travel, life, and formation.

Rebooking was easy. I was given a hotel, food vouchers, and eventually a seat on a direct flight home the next morning—actually better than my original plan. There was rest. A warm bed. A good breakfast. A shorter drive home.

What felt like loss slowly revealed itself as provision. As I’m learning in my recovery journey, difficult circumstances might be better news than I assume.

Looking back, I can see how quickly anxiety narrowed my vision. It told me there was only one acceptable outcome and that everything depended on my effort to secure it. In A Non-Anxious Life, I describe this as the illusion of control—the quiet belief that if I push hard enough, I can secure peace. Airports have a way of exposing how fragile that illusion really is. Anxiety urged me to hurry, to push, to strain. And when things didn’t work out, it tempted me to interpret that moment as failure rather than invitation.

But spiritual life, like travel, rarely unfolds according to our carefully constructed timelines.

There are delays we don’t choose. Closed doors we arrive at just a little too late. Long nights that interrupt our plans and force us to receive rather than achieve. In those moments, the deeper question is not whether we did everything right but whether we can remain open—open to kindness, to help, to rest, and to the possibility that God’s care may come wrapped in inconvenience.

That night in Newark, nothing went according to plan. And yet, looking back, I can only say this: I was well cared for.

For Reflection:

• Where has a recent delay or disruption stirred more anxiety than you expected—and what story did you begin telling yourself in that moment?
• When plans fall apart, do you tend to push harder or become more receptive to help, rest, and grace?
• What might change if you trusted that God’s care could arrive through inconvenience rather than efficiency?