Morgan Freeman, God, and Living into the Moment

Years ago, I found myself trapped—yes, trapped—in Dulles Airport, Washington, D.C. Well, okay, not literally trapped (no dramatic escape needed), but stuck overnight because of bad weather. Our flight back to Knoxville? Canceled.

Now, if you’ve never spent the night in an airport, let me tell you—it’s not exactly a five-star resort experience. There were no cozy beds, no warm cookies, no complimentary robes. Just the hum of vending machines and the occasional “This is a TSA security reminder…” announcement that slowly eats away at your sanity.

Nobody was thrilled. Everyone wanted to be somewhere else, preferably anywhere that didn’t involve sleeping upright in a plastic chair. But one woman? Oh, she was especially not thrilled.

She went off on the airline employees. She ranted. She raved. She unleashed a monologue of injustice so fierce that Shakespeare himself would’ve been impressed. And then, out of nowhere, she threw this gem into the mix:

“This airline is just like the Heisman committee that cheated Peyton Manning in 1997!”

…Wait, what?

I had so many questions. What did Peyton Manning have to do with this flight delay? Was the airline conspiring against Tennessee? Had the entire East Coast secretly vowed revenge on Vols fans?

I decided this was my cue to slowly back away. I shuffled off to baggage claim—the natural habitat of stranded souls—found a nice wall to slump against, and began to sulk in peace.

And that’s when God spoke to me.

In a deep, unmistakable voice (that sounded suspiciously like Morgan Freeman), God said:

“Marty… don’t be like her.”

“Enjoy this moment.”

“I made it for you.”

“It’s my gift.”

“Live into it.”

And after a moment of spiritual clarity (and mild confusion about why God chooses to sound like a Hollywood actor), I realized something:

I had two choices. I could grumble my way through the night, or I could look around and find something—anything—good in this moment.

So, I started noticing people.

Like the very old couple—he was hunched over in pain, and she, with arthritic hands, was lovingly rubbing his shoulders. They looked at each other with the kind of love that had survived decades of flight delays and life’s turbulence. It was beautiful.

Or the twin girls giggling under a makeshift blanket fort, whispering, “We’re gonna stay up all night!” with the kind of excitement only kids can muster over a situation that most adults would file under “Mild to Severe Inconvenience.”

Then there were the two middle-aged guys, completely passed out in uncomfortable chairs. One had a magazine over his face, which rustled every time he snored. The other? He’d gone full Lone Ranger, sporting a sleep mask like an exhausted superhero. I laughed, snapped a pic, and shared it on Facebook. (The insomniacs in my friend list loved it.)

Then came the little old lady. Alone. Sobbing.

She spoke only French, and while my French skills were limited (think: high school class, barely passed), I caught enough to figure out she was lost and her daughter hadn’t found her. Security made some calls, and moments later—bam!—the daughter rushed in, hugging her mother in a tearful reunion. Even the security guards got misty-eyed. I wiped away a tear, too. Dang it, emotions!

But the real showstopper? The cleaning lady.

Around 3 a.m., she hobbled in, pushing her yellow bucket like a warrior armed for battle. She scrubbed the baggage carousel like it was her life’s purpose. And then? She climbed on it.

She pressed a hidden button, and the conveyor started moving.

There she went, spinning around like a queen on a luggage-themed merry-go-round, dust rag in hand, cleaning the unreachable corners. It was art. It was commitment. It was—dare I say—majestic.

And in that moment, I realized something: I had actually enjoyed the night.

Because every moment—even the ones spent in baggage claim purgatory—is a gift.

The next morning, we finally boarded our flight to Knoxville. The angry Peyton Manning fan? Still fuming. Still furious. Still threatening to write a letter to the CEO of the airline.

And I couldn’t help but think: She just lost twelve hours of life, marinating in rage, while the rest of us found something worth smiling about.

I think God, pretending to be Morgan Freeman, was right.

Every moment is a gift.

Even the ones spent in airports.

So whatever moment you’re in—live into it.

It’s richer and deeper than you think.