On a plane home from New York over Christmas several years ago, I sat beside an older man who noticed that I was reading From Beirut to Jerusalem (full disclosure: I still haven’t finished it).  He asked if I was Jewish and, instead of my usual one-word inhibitory response to people on planes, I said, “No, I’m a Christian.”  His eyes lit up and he poked his wife beside him, telling her, “Did you hear that?  She’s a Christian!”  Holy shit, here we go, I thought, because there are only a few Christians I actually like, and the man proceeded to engage me in a conversation over the next hour-and-a-half that I honestly enjoyed.  He told me about some mission work he and his family were doing in Israel and I told him that I’d always wanted to go there.  Then, somehow, we got onto the subject of prophecy (no, I had not ordered from the in-flight bar).  It turned out that his son claimed to have the gift of prophecy and had exercised this gift with various people over the years to a high point of accuracy.  He told me his son was on the plane, a few rows back.  Then he asked me if I wanted to talk to him after we disembarked.

I know.

But because this man seemed so genuine, to the point of charming off my hard New York outer shell, and because I believe in a God who is big enough to keep a few mysteries to Himself, I took a chance.  We would be out in the open in Atlanta’s airport, the biggest in the country, and I have a very loud scream.  So when I walked from the jetway to the gate and the man’s son was waiting for him, I allowed myself to be introduced and explained.  And the prophesying began.

He didn’t ask many questions of me beyond where I lived, what I did for a living, if I was married.  Then he prayed for me and started talking.  His prophecy was more of a vision, and he described “seeing” me in the future: seeing me with a camera, seeing me traveling, seeing me near a swingset, seeing me singing.  Then he informed me that the man I was dating was not meant to be my husband.  That lent to his credibility, considering the guy was an assface who I later found out from one of my gay friends was most likely gay.  (Should’ve listened to The Dad when he told me never to date a San Francisco liberal.)  Mr. Prophecy and I parted minutes later and that was the end of that.  No K.I.T. or pen pal action since.

The next day I drove to Birmingham to meet with GB, my then-counselor and future-wedding officiant, and I told him the story.  Since he’s heard worse from me, I was only mildly embarrassed to relate my involvement in such a trip to crazytown, and I waited for, at the least, a sigh or shaking head.  But GB went on to explain a Biblical basis for some of the wildest spiritual gifts, along with giving a hefty warning about all the ways they can be misinterpreted and misused.  Ultimately, he left it between me and JC to discuss.  Then he asked me about my boyfriend.  After a couple minutes’ description from me, he all but sighed and shook his head and conveyed that this man was not my husband.  In his own gentle, truth-revealing way.  Cut to four years later, when he’s performing my wedding ceremony.  To a guy from California who is straight and not related to anyone in Congress.

Over the years I’ve thought about my personal prophecy, wondering if the guy was a nutjob or not as I’ve traveled to Europe and all over this country; as I’ve looked out for swingsets; as I’ve glanced at marquees advertising karaoke night and thought Hmmm. Who knows?  All I can say is that nothing has turned out the way I originally planned it, and no one is happier than I am about that.  Had my various agendas materialized, I would have been, at different points in time, the following: married at twenty-two; raising children before I grew up; living with a man who was neither my best friend nor my true love; making regretful, recorded comments as a contestant on The Bachelor; never knowing the sights and streets of New York City by heart.  And then, more recently, I would have been growing old in that city alone, becoming the crazy lady on the street throwing trash at people.

In other words, I have no business being in the fortune-telling business.  And if the gift of prophecy still exists, I don’t have it.  But that’s okay, because I’m living out the best vision I never had…and practicing my singing on the side.  Just in case.