he man sitting beside me on the plane just got back from Jerusalem.

“You should visit Jerusalem,” he tells me.

I agree. Frankly, I think everyone should visit most places. Except for Gary, Indiana. I’m sorry Gary, Indiana, but you are not a nice city.

“Are you a Christian?” he asks.

Okay, this is gonna be a long one.

I hate this question, by the way. If you want to get me talking, ask me about Alaska, about lube, about books I’ve read recently. Do not ask if I’m a Christian.. It’s like asking me what my favorite song is. I have ideas, I have thoughts on this topic, but I prefer not having to take a stance, because I know you will judge me based on whatever I say. “ I don’t know,” I say. “I’m a Christian by blood.” Maybe he suspects I am Jewish. It’s weird. Sometimes people do.

He laughs. “Whose blood? His or your mom’s?”

I was thinking Mom. Mom and Dad are Christian, I guess. They would probably answer “yes” if some random old man sitting beside them on the plane asked them about it. The man starts talking to me. He’s not as creepy as he sounds. He is actually very kind, and calming, and because I get nervous and queasy and scared on plane rides, this is actually a welcome distraction for me. The plane is shaking a little bit. So is my right leg.

“I don’t get nervous, because if this plane is going down, I know where I’m going.” He points up. I assume he does not mean the overhead bin. “Faith is a gift,” he says.

“It sounds nice,” I say, and I honestly mean this. “But I don’t think it’s a gift. I think faith takes work.” I guess I say this because I don’t really have faith, and if faith were something someone could simply gift me, then I’m gonna be really pissed about all those Starbucks cards.

He quotes me a line of Scripture. I can’t remember it now. “It doesn’t say anything in there about work, does it?”

Well, he’s got me there. The old man used to be a gospel singer. He lives in North Carolina now. His son lives in Honduras, teaching English with his wife, and they are going to have a baby in March. He tells me his son will be a good father, because he is a good husband, and it strikes me that I might like to be described like this one day. She will be a good mother, because she is a good wife. The old man’s wife died a few years ago. Now he plays organ at the church. He gives thanks for his mistakes.

“The Bible says, ‘In all things, give thanks.’” The plane is descending now, nasty little bubbles exploding in my ears. “Not just thanks for the good things, but thanks in all things.” His pretzels rattle off his tray table, spill on the floor. “I’m thankful those pretzels just fell,” he says.

I laugh. Me, too.

I return to my laptop, because I’m typing a long letter to my friend Julie, and I want to finish it before we land. While I’m typing he picks up my copy of New York magazine, a three-week-old copy I saved in order to read a cover story about Gawker, which I have now read, and which has made me a bit sick, reminding me as it does about some of my least favorite things about New York, and media, and writers, and me. And he scribbles in the margins: John 3:16. Eph 8: 9,10. And he writes his email address. His name is Dan.

“I’m thankful I missed my plane this morning. God wanted me to meet you.”

I have to put away my laptop now. I finished the letter just in time. “Do you think?” I ask.

“I know. God is looking out for you. And now I am, too.”

I guess I could be thankful for that.

“When your mom sees you today, she is going to say, ‘Oh my, there is something different about you!’”

“This is true,” I say. “I dyed my hair.”

He laughs. “I’m not talking about your hair.”

I know, I know. But he makes me uncomfortable with the born-again God stuff, and I’m trying to be nice about it. Anyway, my mother is not all that Christian. She would tell you that God is in all of us. My Dad, on the other hand. He is growing a bit fundie around the edges these days.

I listen to Dan sing a gospel song, clouds drifting behind him in the window. He sings nicely. And when we leave the plane, he asks to take my picture, and I say that’s fine, and then he says he will email it to me, which is funny. Why would I want a picture of myself in the Atlanta airport? I would like a picture of Dan in the Atlanta airport. But maybe I’ll ask for that later.

Right before he hugs me goodbye, he asks where my mom is, where I’m flying today, and I have told him both these things three times, and I have that sinking feeling you get when you are having an amazing conversation with someone who is terribly drunk and will not remember this tomorrow.

I go to Popeye’s and order a #2 chicken combo with mashed potatoes. I give thanks that I ordered spicy rather than mild. I give thanks for the spork. (I AM SO GLAD FOR THE SPORK!) I give thanks that I have a 50-minute layover, with nothing to do but text someone I wish were with me right now, only I’m grateful he’s not, because I don’t think Popeye’s in the Atlanta airport is his idea of a good time. I give thanks for the greasy fingers, for the torn, blotted napkin, for the orange plastic tray. For you, for me, for Dan.