Notes from the Troposphere

Yesterday I met an MD-80 pilot who flies for a major national carrier. Naturally we spent the best part of two hours talking about flying and swapping tall hangar tales. All of which reminded me of two core truths: there's hardly anything I love more than flying, and there's hardly anything I hate more than flying.

I started flying almost as a lark after taking a "discovery" flight at the Anderson Airport. At the end of the 1 hour flight, I realized I was hooked when the instructor handed me a logbook with my name written on the front page under the heading "Pilot In Command." Wasn't my intention that afternoon to start flying lessons, but I figured I'd show up for my first "real" lesson and if things started getting hairy I could just bail (no pun intended) without a serous loss of self-esteem. All I had to do, I told myself, was get through the next lesson.

By the time I'd finally learned how to land, navigate and communicate on the radios I figured I'd complete my solo, and be all done with flying. But after soloing and experiencing the awesome freedom of being alone in the cockpit at the controls, I realized the hardest part of my training was behind me. I continued building hours with stall practice, unusual attitude training and night flights so that by the time I took my FAA pilot's exam I hardly broke a sweat.

I especially loved flying at night. The air was usually smooth as silk and from 4000 feet the view from the cockpit's windscreen was more spectacular than any IMAX movie imaginable.

The first time I scared myself half witless came a few days after getting my Instrument Rating (imagine flying for about 2 hours and setting up to land just 200 feet over the runway just by relying on a compass and turn coordinator, without seeing the ground a single time). I'd already flown twice by myself through "weather," but the third time was fantastically horrifying.

I was in thick fog just seconds after takeoff, not guessing that Moderate Turbulence was up there waiting. I very quickly realized I'd exceeded my ability as a pilot, and that keeping myself in the air might prove impossible.

In another minute, just staying level and within 1000 feet of my assigned altitude while being buffeted like a rodeo cowboy atop an invisible bull became a gut-wrenching struggle way beyond my ability. I even started worrying (though I rationally knew better) the wings might simply snap off in mid-air.

As the instruments began blurring together I remembered the term vertigo. I'd memorized all the warnings about vertigo causing pilots to ignore the instruments and start listening instead to the voice inside his brain screaming You've turned upside down! Straighten up right now! (close your eyes and imagine you're sitting in your chair, accelerating as you fall backwards through empty space but the instruments are saying everything's hunky dory).

That's what vertigo feels like ... and real panic, fueled by adrenalein, tastes exactly like copper. The fear was so intense I started hating myself for intentionally getting into such trouble. Why had I done such a stupid thing? I wanted to close my eyes, let go of the controls and quit flying the airplane, just so the terror would stop. I told myself that if I somehow got turned around and managed to land that I'd never fly again.

But I went up again the next day, and kept on flying for several more years ... even after badly scaring myself the second and third times.

I guess this story isn't isn't about flying at all ... it's about accepting that hardly anything of value comes without a demand for something of equal price in return. Maybe that's why only God could've conceived of something as perfect and flawless as Grace, and why Grace is such a difficult concept for us to grasp and accept.

Whether it concerns relationships, a career or a spiritual calling, sometimes survival requires us to stay "at the controls," to keep on going and ignore the internal voice hollering You're upside down! Bail out now!

Being human, we were born already exceeding our ability to keep ourselves in the air. Without Grace, it's not hard to predict how each of our flights were gonna end.