Authors: Dale Black
Tags: #Afterlife, #Biography & Autobiography, #Nonfiction, #Personal Memoir, #Retail
Flight to Heaven (18 page)
I paused, wondering what the next thought should be, wondering if I could even put it into words.
“God, so many times in the Bible I’ve read about the way You speak to people in dreams.”
And I felt awkward asking this, the way a child feels awkward about asking for something that’s not his but that he wants really, really bad.
“Would You give me a special dream tonight? Talk to me, please? Tell me . . . whatever You want to tell me, OK?”
Again I paused, like a kid collecting his thoughts, then, with his arms full, realizing he has forgotten one.
“Oh, and Father, I promised a lot of people that I would fly over the air memorial as pilot in command on the first anniversary. It’s not humanly possible, I know that. I can see that. My ankle would have to be almost normal to pass the exam. And I would have to convince someone to allow me to rent their aircraft. And fly by myself. On crutches and all. God, this would require a couple more miracles from You. And all within twelve hours. But Lord, if this would bring glory to You, or if for some other reason You want this to happen . . . please work it out.”
Then I prayed something uncharacteristic of me, something Jesus prayed in the garden of Gethsemane; and in doing so, I exchanged more of my self-will for surrender.
“I would sure like to fly tomorrow, if You would allow it. But Your will be done, not mine.”
A peace I can’t describe came over me.
“Father, thanks for life. Thanks for Your unending love.”
I took a deep breath, not quite sure how to end. Feeling a little clumsy with my words, but also feeling an enormous tenderness toward Him.
“I love You, dear God. And I promise to always serve You.”
I felt I had just crawled onto His lap, and now He was tucking me in for the night. I was full of love and peace and joy. And those were the feelings that sang me to sleep.
The next morning I awoke, rested, but not quite ready to jump out of bed. He had indeed spoken to me in a dream that night. The “secret place of the Most High” became real to me. I knew what it was like to “rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”
To rest.
Not only to strive, but to rest. That’s what I had missed out on so much over the past year. I had worked really, really hard. I had believed really, really hard. But I had not rested in God nearly enough.
That night I experienced what it was like to be nested
under
Him. To be covered with
His
feathers. To find refuge under
His
wings.
under
Him. To be covered with
His
feathers. To find refuge under
His
wings.
I wasn’t afraid.
I wasn’t anxious.
I wasn’t ashamed.
I was
His
. His child. His baby bird. And He was going to help me fly. Maybe not today, but someday. I wasn’t destined for the nest. I felt destined for the sky. He knew that about me long before I knew it about myself.
His
. His child. His baby bird. And He was going to help me fly. Maybe not today, but someday. I wasn’t destined for the nest. I felt destined for the sky. He knew that about me long before I knew it about myself.
I didn’t want to get out of bed. I had been embraced in a dream. By Him. Have you ever felt that way? Ever felt that a dream was so good, so beautiful, you didn’t want to wake up?
That’s how I felt. As if some of heaven had opened and spilled itself onto me. Drenched in love. Like the loving arms of my heavenly Father were embracing me.
“Our Father . . . who art in
heaven
.”
heaven
.”
Whatever else heaven is, it is where the Light and Love and Life exist at the center of the universe. I felt as if heaven opened, and I saw my Father’s face looking down on me. Looking down at me in delight. Loving me unconditionally.
I basked in that. It wasn’t because of anything I had done. It wasn’t because I had earned it. He just loved me.
Smells from the kitchen made their way into my room. It was a lazy Saturday morning, but Mom was up early as usual, making breakfast. The smell of coffee perking on the stove, bacon crackling in the pan, and French toast. Mmm.
I threw off my covers and followed my nose to the kitchen.
“Morning, Mom.”
“Good morning, Dale.”
It
was
a good morning.
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!
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.
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 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.
the form asked.
Yes
, I answered, determined to tell the whole truth.
, 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!
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.
None.
Later next to that word I typed
Thank GOD!!!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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