Flight to Heaven Read online

  It was a good morning.

  I sat down and started to eat. A bite, two bites, three. Savoring each one when . . .

  . . . a thought—as white and hot and fast as lightning—bolted across my mind.

  I walked out here. Without crutches!

  I raised my pant leg. The swelling had gone down! I was so excited I couldn’t take another bite. But I couldn’t share my excitement with my mom. This time I wasn’t going to make a parade out of my faith. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it differently, quietly, unpretentiously.

  Careful not to overdo it, as I had done in the previous weeks, I hopped back to my room on my good leg. I sat on my bed, looking at my ankle, touching it, rubbing it.

  For the first time in a year the ankle looked almost normal. The pain was still there, but the swelling was gone. And with the swelling gone, maybe, just maybe, I could squeak by the FAA physical.

  I looked at the clock. A little past eight. A lot to do, I thought. Take the physical. Rent a plane. Talk the person I rent it from into letting me fly it. Alone. Could get one from my aeronautics teacher, maybe, at Compton Airport. Fly to Burbank. Take off from Runway 15. That was crucial.

  Quickly I put on a suit and tie, grabbed my crutches, and hopped to the door. I decided not to call ahead to schedule an appointment. On this short notice, they’d probably not see me. I’d just show up and see if the doctor could work me in.

  I never appreciated my MGB more than I did that day. It ate up every straightaway; took every turn in stride. Arriving at the office of an FAA medical examiner in Long Beach, I left my crutches inside the car and hopped on my good leg to the entrance, saving my tentative left foot for the exam. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

  This is it, I told myself.

  I walked through the door, slowly and steadily, trying to walk as normally as possible. It hurt so bad. I limped slightly into the waiting room as I walked to the front desk and asked for an application.

  Have you ever had a concussion? the form asked.

  Yes, I answered, determined to tell the whole truth.

  Have you been hospitalized within the past five years?

  Yes.

  Have you had surgery within the past five years?

  Yes.

  Have you at some time lost consciousness?

  Yes.

  The questions were getting harder, more probing. And then the last question.

  Have you ever been the pilot in command at the time of an airplane crash?

  No.

  Passenger, yes. Pilot, no.

  Nervously I handed back the form and prayed under my breath, “God, You have brought me this far . . . would You please allow the paperwork to go through?”

  No questions were asked.

  The paperwork went through!

  Now the physical. The doctor was formal, somewhat impersonal. Another day, another exam. Which, thank God, was cursory. He looked at my head, but he didn’t seem to notice the scars. The hair had grown back nicely enough to cover them pretty well.

  Whew!

  Now the eyes. He looked at both, then examined my good eye, had me read the eye chart. Everything OK there. Now the right eye. And I was praying my heart out between each line. Although I could see pretty well with both eyes, when I closed my good eye, it was quite fuzzy. I could read the larger lines fine, but then came the last line, and I could barely make out the letters.

  I knew I could see well enough to fly.

  I read the letters the best I could.

  Another big but unspoken Whew!

  “I need you to hop on one leg for two minutes so I can check your heart rate,” the doctor said.

  “Sure,” I said, and you can guess which leg I chose.

  The results?

  I passed! I walked out of the office with a limp, but I walked out with a First Class medical certificate, dated July 18, 1970.

  Under the heading LIMITATIONS, they typed the word None.

  Later next to that word I typed Thank GOD!!!!!

  I called my aeronautics professor and asked if I could rent his single-engine Piper Cherokee.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Now.”

  We arranged to meet at Compton Airport, where his four-seater was hangared. I had spoken to him months earlier. Of course he knew about the crash, my injuries, my goals, my faith. I had spoken in his class at the junior college and he had been watching my progress with keen interest and a lot of encouragement.

  My MGB ran with the wind and got me to Compton Airport in record time. Mr. Travis, my professor, gave me the customary in-flight exam that was required to prove I was again capable of flying an aircraft and flying it solo.

  Once in the air, he had me stall the aircraft several times, take some steep turns, some takeoffs and landings, a complete check ride.

  Back on the ground, he had me fill out some rental forms and then he signed my logbook. He looked at it before giving it to me. “Looks like you haven’t flown in a while,” he said, knowing the full reason why.

  “You’re right, sir. I’ve been busy with college. You see, I’ve got this aeronautics professor . . .” I looked at Mr. Travis, grinning. “He’s incredibly demanding.”

  He smiled back, endorsing my logbook to fly the Piper Cherokee 140 with the words, “Safe to operate PA-28-140 as Pilot in Command. July 18, 1970.”

  He handed me the book and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Welcome back, Dale.”

  It felt great to be back.

  I hopped back to the small plane. My ankle was hurting pretty bad by now. Cleared for takeoff, I taxied to the runway and took off for Burbank. By the time I landed, the pain was severe from using my left foot for braking and my left arm for landing. Even though I was compensating by using my heel only for rudder and braking, my ankle was getting more of a workout than it had in over a year, and it was throbbing.

  In spite of the pain, though, I felt great. Captain of my own airplane again.

  Moments after landing in Burbank, I was ready to take off again and complete my mission. I taxied to the runway and stopped at the intersection of Runway 15. I picked up the microphone and radioed the control tower.

  “Burbank Tower, this is Cherokee 37 November, over.”

  “37 November, this is Burbank Tower, go ahead.”

  “Burbank Tower . . . this is 37 November. One year ago today . . .”

  I released the mic button, ending the transmission. Overwhelmed with emotion, I lowered my head and cried. I cried so hard I wasn’t sure I could go on.

  “37 November, this is Burbank Tower, go ahead . . .”

  I dried my eyes with my shirtsleeves, then looked around the cabin for something to keep them dry.

  “37 November, this is Burbank Tower, how do you read?”

  I took several deep breaths, yanked off my dress shirt, and blotted my face. I’m going to fly this flight, I said to myself. And I’m going to do it now.

  “Cherokee 37 November, this is Burbank Tower, how do you read?”

  I took a deep breath and pressed the button on the mic.

  “Burbank Tower, this is Cherokee 37 November. One year ago today a Piper Navajo crashed into the air memorial Portal of the Folded Wings, just south of the airport. Two pilots were killed. I alone survived. I dedicate this anniversary flight to the glory of God.”

  The tower was silent. I wondered if they had heard me. But they were fighting emotions of their own.

  “37 November, stand by.”

  Another pause, and then the words “37 November, two of us were on duty that day . . . we didn’t think anyone survived.”

  Again a pause.

  “37 November, we’re glad you made it! Congratulations!”

  A fresh flood of emotion washed over me. I was shocked anyone even remembered.

  “37 November is requesting to use the full length of runway one-five. Negative intersection departure.”

  “Roger, 37 November. You’re cleared to cross run
way one-five. Taxi to the approach end, hold short . . . monitor this frequency.”

  While holding at the approach end of the runway, I completed the engine run-up . . . once . . . twice . . . three times.

  Looking across the airport, I focused on the southern end of the runway. The air memorial stood indifferently against a hazy sunset sky. I glanced at the runway . . . back to the memorial . . . then to the cockpit instruments. There was nothing else to check.

  “Burbank Tower, 37 November, ready for takeoff. I’d like to remain in the pattern.”

  “Roger, 37 November, you’re cleared for takeoff runway one-five. Report right downwind. Have a very safe flight.”

  Suddenly I was terrified. This time I was flying over the monument alone. I paused a moment to regain my composure. No, I reminded myself. I wasn’t flying alone. I had never flown alone. A calm assurance came over me.

  I pushed the throttle forward, heard the familiar rev of the engine, felt the power under each wing, the familiar bouncing, and in a moment I was airborne.

  My eyes found the huge ornate dome, glinting in the sun, and they fixed on it. With unblinking determination, I stayed the course, taking the same route the Piper Navajo had taken a year earlier. The closer I got, the harder my heart beat. Then, barely a hundred feet over the dome, I passed it.

  As it vanished beneath me, tears streamed down my face. I mopped them with my shirt.

  That day I took three passes over the Portal of the Folded Wings. As I did, I softly said, “Thank You, God. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.”

  When the sun fell below the horizon, I banked toward the airport. I did a touch-and-go landing and radioed for permission to go home.

  “Burbank Tower, this is 37 November, requesting a straight out departure.”

  “37 November, roger. Straight out departure, approved.”

  A pause, and then the microphone crackled one last time.

  “37 November, Burbank Tower. A very . . . big . . . congratulations to you . . . from all of us.”

  I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t speak. More tears. So many tears they seemed to be running not only out of my eyes but out of my nose, my mouth, every pore on my face.

  I wanted to say something to them, but I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t want to give the impression that I alone had accomplished this feat. I knew that if God hadn’t reached down and performed a series of miracles on my broken body over the last twelve months I couldn’t be flying now. And if God hadn’t orchestrated today’s new answers to prayer, this anniversary flight as pilot in command never could have taken place. I knew then and have always known since that although I am small, I am connected to a very big God.

  As the single-engine plane climbed, my eyes fell on the lush green grasses of the Hollywood Hills Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Chuck was buried. I thought about Chuck and Gene, how they died, and how I should have died along with them. I stared down at St. Joseph Hospital and Dr. Graham’s office. I thought of the thirteen surgeries, all the people I had met—the doctors, nurses, friends who came to visit. I remembered Joel Green, who took his own flight to heaven just hours after we met. So much flashed through my mind. And with those images came the words I wanted to say to the men back at the control tower.

  “Burbank Tower, thank you for your help today. This is 37 November, reminding you that with God . . . nothing shall be impossible.”

  19

  ANNIVERSARY SURPRISE

  Once I touched down at Compton Airport, I climbed into my car and headed for home. How will I tell my parents? I wondered. How could I find the words to tell them how much this meant to me, why I had to do it? How could I tell them that I wouldn’t be going into the family business, that for some reason I was going to fly. I had to fly, had to or something essential would die in me?

  How do you say things like that to your mom and dad? How do you speak your heart without breaking theirs? How do you tell them you have to leave the nest? That even though your wings aren’t healed you have to stretch them? You’re grateful, but you’ve got to get on with your life. How do you look your mom in the eye and say those things when she knows that every time you get into a plane, you put your life at risk? You risk another crash. Risk hurting her all over again. Risk inflicting a wound that may never heal.

  How do you do that?

  I didn’t know.

  I pulled into the driveway, careful how I got out of the car. It had been a long day, and my body felt it. I left my crutches in the car. I wanted to end the day walking through the door on my own two legs.

  My steps grew slower the closer I got to the front door, putting off the inevitable as long as possible, steeling myself for their reaction.

  I opened the door.

  “SURPRISE!”

  The house was filled with friends and family. And my mom and dad—whose hearts I feared breaking—had arranged a One-Year Survival Anniversary party. My brothers were there. My college roommate was there. My next-door neighbor. My girlfriend, Anna, and her sister Susan. Gramps. Grandma. Jerry and Verna. The people who had prayed for me. Cried with me. Encouraged me. Visited me. They were all there. All there and cheering me home.

  Grandma pulled me to the sofa and snuggled next to me, nuzzling me, holding and rubbing my hands. Mom played the piano. Everyone patted me on the back. Loving me.

  It was a bit of heaven, one of the closest I’ve experienced on earth.

  As people were enjoying the festivities, my mother went to the kitchen. I followed her, knowing I had to tell her, knowing she would want to be told.

  “Mom, I, uh . . . I need to tell you something.”

  She braced herself.

  “I need to tell you where I was today, what I did.”

  I paused, looking into her eyes. I was so excited, but I didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want her to feel that I was rejecting my home, the family business, everything she and dad had done for me.

  “I passed the FAA medical today. I flew over the memorial. And I did it as the command pilot. Three times.”

  Her face registered shock. She gazed at me for a long time, speechless.

  “I’m proud of you, Dale!” Tears fell from her eyes. She gave me a hug, my wilted T-shirt blotting her tears. “I know that was important to you,” she said, knowing full well that my choice would take me away from her, possibly forever, possibly leaving a hole in her heart that could never be filled.

  She pulled away and wiped her tears, looking at me tenderly.

  “I guess you’re just destined to fly.”

  My secret was no longer a secret. She ushered me into the living room and shared it with everyone.

  That’s when the real party began.

  God loved the tenderhearted boy who somewhere along the way to growing up had lost his way. He remembered the boy and the boy’s prayers as he knelt beside his bed. He went after the little boy and brought him the last part of the way home.

  And the two of us—the boy I once was and the man I had become—knelt together to pray. They prayed about how much the boy needed his Father . . . and how much the man needed him still.

  A year before I wanted to be a pilot.

  And I wanted it bad.

  A year later, I wanted a Father. My heavenly Father.

  And I wanted Him bad.

  That is the difference between who I was then and who I am now. A boy wanting so badly to be a man. A man wanting so badly to be a boy. A boy who could sit on his Father’s lap and just be held.

  Psalm 103 says that God has compassion on us the way a father has compassion on his children. The reason? Because He knows our frame and He knows that we are but dust.

  My frame had been wrecked, just like the airplane I crashed in. A joint or two had been ground to dust. And with each passing year I feel the earth making its claim on me.

  What I felt in the dream that night before my anniversary flight was not a Father’s criticism but a Father’s compassion.

  I felt so whole, so happy, so hea
led. So loved. So totally and unconditionally loved.

  I felt something else too. I felt peace. The peace a child feels when held in the strong arms of his father, seeing the smile on his face, the glint in his eye, and hearing tender words from his lips.

  I realize that I was held by those same strong arms the year before when the wings broke and I fell to the ground. God’s hand was in all of it in some mysterious way that has taken a lifetime to understand.

  Little by little my life would come back to me. It would take several years of recuperation before I would be back to normal. Someday there would be no more wheelchairs. No more crutches. No more braces. No more eye patches.

  I would be back on the baseball team too. I was no longer quick enough to play shortstop, so the coach moved me to outfield.

  My body came back, a little at a time.

  So did my memory.

  And so did the little boy.

  The little boy who dreamed of flying.

  We’re all home now. My body, my memory, the boy I once was. At least we’re as close to home as we will be this side of heaven.

  20

  INVISIBLE CITY

  SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER TUESDAY, MAY 22—01:37—12,000 FEET, SOMEWHERE OVER SOUTHERN ZAMBIA

  “Captain, do you copy that?”

  A jolt on my arm from First Officer Steve Holmes snaps me back to reality, my senses flooding with cockpit sights and sounds that demand immediate attention. Suddenly I am again alert with a burst of adrenaline.

  “Say it again, Steve?”

  “We’re established at the Outer Marker, level at one-two thousand. What do you want to do now?”

  The tension in Steve’s voice is thick and real, and in a nanosecond my mind is again aware that we are streaking across the night sky in our glistening white-and-blue-striped corporate jet somewhere over south central Africa. Having just descended from 41,000 feet, I slow the jet from nearly the speed of sound to just over two hundred knots. Low on reserve fuel, we are established in a holding pattern over what we think—what we hope—is Lusaka International Airport.