When I learned my mother had entered a “deep sleep,” I took a last-minute flight to be with her.

It was my pre-doula days, so I didn’t know exactly what was happening to her. Mom had gone down, then rallied, often that year. In fact, no one in the family knew what to think, and the nursing home staff offered little guidance.

Plus, my job had gotten dangerously messy. I wasn’t comfortable taking open-ended leave.

So, I purchased a roundtrip ticket, with return trip for six days later.

I figured, in that time period, she’d either die or come out of it. I’d know where her condition stood and could plan accordingly.

But death is far from predictable. My mother lingered as my return trip approached.

So, midnight before my flight home, I realized I'd have to delay my trip.

Around midnight, I looked out at the moonlight falling on the frozen parking lot. I took a deep breath and braced myself for my call to the airline's customer service line.

Pre-COVID, airlines were notoriously difficult about itinerary changes. They gouged passengers on change fees. They upped the price of tickets. Emptied the miles of out of frequent flyer accounts.

I could and would afford the change. But I loathed the idea of subjecting myself to the predatory policies of a company making a buck off my misery.

To my surprise, the rep was calm and helpful. She asked only two questions. What was the name and phone number of my mother's nursing home (which, according to receptionist, she never called)? And, gently, she asked if I didn’t want to stay longer to “take care of affairs.”

She then rescheduled my flight. No penalties or upcharges. No tapping into my miles.

When I recounted this story to my father the next day, I told him Delta changed the flight at no cost.

But I misspoke.

“Delta” didn’t change it. A kind-hearted Delta employee did.

She could have chosen to recite the airline's schedule-change policy, chapter, and verse. Instead, she chose to be my advocate. To be a friend to a perfect stranger in distress.

This story still makes me cry.

There’s something about a devastating loss that allows us to feel a stranger’s kindness deep in our heart.

We all have stories of others’ ham-handed attempts to comfort us, but, instead, make things worse. As a client once told me, “People act stupid around grief.”

But we need to also remember, we live among kindred spirits who’ve walked in our shoes. They understand grief.

They offer us what they can, including what we need most.

Kindness.

So, I write this story to remind us, both you and me:

Friends do show up when you least expect it.

Even in the Shadowlands.