Cataloged in the file entitled “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea” is an account of the day I nearly fell out of the sky. I was riding in the back of a single-engine plane when, well, let’s just say, had I been a Catholic, I would have rubbed the rosaries raw.
The story began when my flight lessons did. That’s correct. I decided I wanted to get my pilot’s license. It dawned on me one afternoon during a four-hour layover that maybe travel would be simpler if I could handle it myself. I’d heard of people doing it: Orville and Wilbur–types who satisfied the FAA’s requirements and set out for their destinations with the ease of a commuter driving to work. No more airport parking garages, no more flight delays, no more serpentine security lines. Sounded good to me.
So I set out to learn to fly. And within twenty or so hours of instruction, I can honestly say I succeeded. I knew how to fly a plane! I could take off. I could turn right and left, ascend, descend, accelerate, decelerate. Just call me Lindbergh. I knew how to fly a plane.
What I didn’t know was how to land a plane.
On the day I nearly fell from the sky, I had completed a lesson and employed my instructor, Hank, to fly me to Dallas for a speaking engagement. A good friend was traveling with me, and since I’d spent the morning in the plane, I offered the front seat to him, and I climbed in the back. This left him in the copilot’s position and me in the snoozing position. I was well into a good nap when I heard the voice of Hank come over our earphones.
“Guys, I’m about to be sick.”
I sat up and leaned forward. Hank was the color of the clouds around us. Tiny beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead. Earlier that day he’d mentioned that his kids were home sick with a virus. I’m no doctor, but I deduced that the virus wasn’t limited to Hank’s home.
“Say that again, Hank?” I asked.
“I gotta put this plane down. I’m not able to fly.”
In the book entitled Words You Never Want to Hear a Pilot Say, that phrase deserves its own chapter. Hank set about the task of finding the nearest airport, and I set about the task of searching for rosary beads. As I mentioned earlier, I was in the back seat. Had I been in the front, I might have felt better. I’d never landed a plane, but I had tried. And if Hank passed out, at least I knew how to descend. But I was in the back, absolutely unable to do anything. I couldn’t reach the controls. I couldn’t radio for help. I couldn’t fly the plane. I couldn’t even blame anyone. I was utterly, totally, entirely helpless.
Ever been there?
Not in a plane perhaps, but in a courtroom, in a doctor’s office, in a jail cell. In a tight place, in a squeeze, in a pickle. With a rock on one side and a hard place on the other, you can’t do anything. It’s not that there is little you can do or that you have limited resources to use or restricted options at your disposal. You can do nothing.
Nothing, that is, except turn to Jesus. You may be out of options, but according to the Bible you are never out of hope. Jesus came for the helpless and the hapless. He came as a friend. And he knows how to land this plane called life.
By the way, we landed safely. Hank held control over his stomach long enough to spot a landing strip that sat in the middle of a cotton field and to bring the plane down. I’ve put my flying lessons on hold. For some reason I’m more interested in hiking boots than airplane wings.