Before long, I found myself on the smallest aircraft I had ever flown. Lifting off from a sunny airfield, I felt like Sky King. Peering out into the bright afternoon, my mind began drifting: “What could I say about this veteran? Which are the key memories?
What kind of example did he set?” My eyes fell shut to the rhythm of the engine.
“Crack! Crack!” Thunder shook the little sevenseater. Instantly awake, I saw nothing but lightning from every window. With the downpour we instinctively went silent, leaning into the aisle. Like us, the pilot and copilot were staring through a dark-gray windshield. I felt as if we were in a submarine, deep in the ocean. “No chance they can see,” I mouthed. “The Bluefield Airport is on the side of a mountain,” a passenger whispered. “Bad landings there before …” his voice trailed off .
Blind with the human eye, the pilots adjusted their headsets. Listening and chattering, the two connected with unseen friends far away—a reassuring rapport across the miles.
A black folio came out. Opening the spiralbound notebook on the console, the two no longer gawked through dismal windows; instead, they gazed at their destination: a diagram of the landing strip. They began memorizing altitude, angle, length.
Drawing guidance from the book, the pilots trusted their instruments and flew by faith. Constantly in touch with the control tower, they believed in the runway—though they couldn’t see it. Steadily slowing, carefully descending through the torrent, pilots and passengers held their breath together. As the clouds parted, the green earth reached up to grab our wheels. I had my sermon.