I was sipping morning coffee when a CBS News special report rolled across the screen.

REVEREND BILLY GRAHAM, 99, DIES.

I grinned. Then chuckled, out loud, at a memory still very much alive.

—-

“Where the hell am I?”

I was jolted out of a dead sleep, bits of slobber running down my mouth.

“Welcome to Charlotte Douglas International Airport. The local time is 7:30 am.”

I pushed the shade up on the TWA jet and put my headache against it.

The in-flight valium and cocktails had not done me well. But I was a white knuckle flyer, and I needed both to cope. So here I was, half way to Rome with a full hangover. And, honestly, I wasn’t thrilled about the trip in the first place.

I was perfectly happy at home in Benedict Canyon, working in the garment business and sleeping with a man my father, Duke, couldn’t bear. So when Duke phoned one morning to say he was on his way over to drop off a surprise, my boyfriend leapt from my king size bed and into his car with one motion.

My father was a very tall and, at times, scary presence. But that morning, when I answered the door, I could sense his other, gentler, side. He gave me a kiss hello and sat down in a chair opposite mine. The living room was still shaded, and the morning sun had not yet peaked through the windows. I was tense. What was he going to give me? Clearly not money, for he insisted I could never make it on my own when I moved out – even though I had.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out a large envelope and handed it to me.

“Open it up!”  He said through a huge smile.

And there, inside, was a round trip ticket to Rome couched as a visit to see my sister, when in fact it was his attempt at breaking up my romantic dalliance.

“Thanks very much, but I don’t want to go. I am settled and I don’t want to leave.”

With that, he stood up and screamed every synonym for ‘ungrateful.’ Then he headed to the front door and slammed it with such force that the very long, thin glass at the top of the stairs shattered.

His rage had the desired effect. I packed my bag and boarded the plane to Italy. The man was nothing if not a master of control.

Back in Charlotte, the hour layover gave my muddled brain a chance to recoup. New passengers filtered into empty seats, and one particularly handsome face stopped in my row.

I stood to allow Franklin Graham, the 20-something, rebellious son of Reverend Billy Graham, to take his seat next to me. And for the next nine hours, while we put down more than a few drinks, and I smoked, yes, smoked, aboard a 747, we had the conversation of our lives. Nothing was off limits. I knew very little about his father, other than he was a famous preacher. But that didn’t stop me from yapping about my love of Judaism despite being a fallen Catholic, and what’s all the fuss about Jesus, and abortion is not a sin, and sex before marriage was clearly the way to roll, and the bible? Not on my top ten list. But I listened as he defined what his future might bring, as well as his father’s very high expectations – which included traveling with the large group of evangelicals on our plane. He didn’t seem sold on following in his father’s religious footsteps, so I wasn’t sure if I sitting next to a holy man on a mission or someone I could date.

“How are you getting to your sister’s house when we land?” Franklin asked.

“I’ll get a cab,” I said, as if there were any other options.

“Oh, please Jennifer, be our guest. We will be taking our tour bus to the hotel. Come along.”

So there I was, suitcase in hand, boarding a bus with Franklin and 60, count ‘em, 60, of Billy Graham’s faithful. Each one cheerfully encouraged me to ‘let Jesus enter my life.’ I barely found my way through the Leonardo da Vinci Airport exit, so I definitely wasn’t going to find my way to their Lord.

Nevertheless, the joy on board that bus sucked me in. It was simply infectious. Between the singing and the loud, exuberant praying, Franklin turned to me and smiled.

“You are a good sport.”

When we finally arrived at the Cavalieri Hilton, I said goodbye to everyone and gave a special hug to my traveling buddy. Then I got into a cab and gave Franklin best wishes for his future.

—

I watched a portion of Franklin’s eulogy to his father a few days ago. He was no longer the wild-haired renegade with bad boy charm.  No longer a genuine, non-political, open-minded young man. In fact, he didn’t seem like the Franklin I’d met at all.

Maybe because he’d finally met his father’s expectations. Or maybe because I single-handedly drank him down the straight and narrow.

And that’s something to laugh about.