Flight to Heaven (22 page)

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Authors: Dale Black

Tags: #Afterlife, #Biography & Autobiography, #Nonfiction, #Personal Memoir, #Retail

BOOK: Flight to Heaven
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Countless men and women are gathered around that well in Lusaka, smiling, their hearts full of joy. You can see it in their eyes. It’s almost like those I saw gathered at the gate of heaven eighteen years before, awaiting my arrival. This time
I
am at the gate, so to speak, waiting for
them
to arrive, smiling at them, welcoming these new brothers and sisters at the entrance of heaven.
I am awake the entire night, reveling in the wonder of it all.
This
is why we are here. It isn’t a mistake. And we aren’t in any danger. We are, in fact, in the safest place we can be—the center of God’s will. He has led us here, to
these
people whose lives were so parched, whose souls were so thirsty. In this case, though, I didn’t so much lead them to the well as He led me to them.
Others in our group, those who are provided blankets, sleep only an hour or two, but as captain, I feel responsible to be vigilant and keep watch. Around ten the next morning, I am approached by a soldier named Robinson. He says the general is in his office and demands to speak with me. I am ushered about two hundred yards away to another building at the airport. I put my tie back on, still wearing my pilot’s uniform.
It is not a pleasant meeting. I take some verbal abuse and apologize profusely for landing without permission, even though as far as I am concerned, I did have permission. Once on the ground, though, it is an entirely different story. And so, with a written apology to the government of Zambia, and after paying a moderate fine, I am given permission to refuel and take off.
When I arrive back at the jail I find Steve praying with a member of the mission team. I pause and bow my head as I hear Steve asking God to forgive him of his sins. I listen with great joy as Steve invites Jesus Christ into his heart and life.
Like my grandfather in years past, it is now I who whisper, “Well, praise the Lord.”
Steve is wonderfully transformed by the same love that God had shown to the soldiers and their wives. The same love He makes available to all who will believe.
To God, it doesn’t matter if you are black or white, Zambian or American, a soldier named Mwelwa or a copilot named Steve. All are one in Christ. And all are now booked on the same flight to heaven.
As we board the plane, I realize I have a “new” copilot. Steve realizes it too. He has seen firsthand the love of God in action. And seeing it, he has decided to experience it for himself. It both fills him and makes him thirsty for more.
For me, Steve’s entry into the family of God is just another of the many answers to my prayers. This time watching God turn a co-worker into a brother.
TEUSDAY, MAY 22—16:10—LUSAKA, ZAMBIA
 
As we taxi the 18,500-pound Learjet to the runway, we get through our routine Before Takeoff Checklist and set up all navigation radios. I rev the engines and the airplane shudders to life, eager to take flight. The soldiers on the tarmac wave enthusiastically, sorry to see us go. As we depart “the surly bonds of earth,” the hum of the well-tuned engines is heavenly music to my ears.
Leaving the sea of soldiers behind, it reminds me of my return flight from heaven—how quickly I was swept away, how everything grew smaller until at last it was out of sight. Memories of how wonderful it felt to be in heaven, surrounded by such love, flooded my mind. It was a lot like the love we were surrounded by in the Lusaka Airport.
 
When we got back to the States, we sent Bibles to Mwelwa and the other soldiers and their wives. After all, they were family now.
That family has grown with each one of the hundreds of mission trips we have flown, with each Bible sent, each gospel tract, each showing of the
Jesus
film, each clinic we helped build, each shipment of medical supplies we helped deliver.
 
A Learjet similar to the one flown on Dale’s missionary flight to Zambia. Photo taken and provided by Andrei Bezmylov (as seen on
www.airliners.net
).
 
I glance past the wing for a final glimpse of the Lusaka International Airport, reflecting on my life before that fateful crash so many years ago . . . and my life after it. As the airport becomes a dot on the landscape, above me only clouds, I realize how much I have changed. For me, airplanes were once symbols of status; now they are symbols of service.
How I used to love the thrill of flight then.
Now it is a different thrill that excites me.
Now it is the thrill of seeing the love of God in action, where I can quench my thirst, if only for a moment, with a little sip of heaven.
A sip that fills me and at the same time makes me thirsty for more.
I feel so full. So satisfied.
Thank You, God. Thank You . . .
For sparing my life.
For healing my broken body.
For giving me new dreams.
But most of all, for allowing me the privilege of serving You and experiencing Your love over and over again.
As we level off at 37,000 feet, heading for South Africa, I select autopilot ON.
Turning to Steve, I say, “You know, we’re brothers now.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, when two people have invited Jesus Christ into their lives, it means that they are both re-born children of God. That makes you and I brothers in Christ.”
“Wow, Dale. You know, I don’t really have any close family.”
“Well, now you have millions of brothers—and millions of sisters—in Christ, all over the world. And Steve, if you only knew of the family that awaits you in heaven . . . I’ll explain more later, OK?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks. And thanks for choosing me for this trip.”
“Steve, I honestly believe it was God who picked you for this flight.” I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I do have a question for you, though.”
Straightening his posture, getting ready to assume some new first-officer duty, Steve responds, “Roger, go ahead.”
I smile with a light chuckle. “What do you suppose God has in store for us next?”
He grins, “I can’t wait to find out . . .
brother
Dale.”
 
AFTERWORD
 
PORTAL OF THE FOLDED WINGS
 
The Portal of the Folded Wings
is the massive shrine that our twin-engine Piper Navajo hit that fateful morning of July 18, 1969.
The Spanish Mission Revival structure was built in 1924 by American architect Kenneth McDonald Jr. and Italian sculptor Frederico A. Giorgi.
It was designed as the entrance to Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery, Valhalla being the mythological palace of Odin, the Norse god of slain warriors.
Originally, visitors drove from Valhalla Drive into the cemetery through the arches that led under the rotunda, past three reflection pools and exquisite garden walls. After it was dedicated, the shrine was used for public events from picnics to concerts to radio broadcasts extending well into the 1930s.
The shrine was built to memorialize the passing of aviation’s greatest pioneers, from aviators to engineers to inventors.
James Floyd Smith has a plaque there—the person who, in 1918, invented the manually operated parachute for the U.S. Army.
Charles Lindbergh is also remembered there as the person who, in 1927, flew the first solo flight across the Atlantic.
Amelia Earhart has a plaque in the monument as well, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, disappearing in 1937 over the central Pacific, attempting to circumnavigate the globe.
General Billy Mitchell, the American Army general who is regarded as the father of the U.S. Air Force, is likewise remembered there.
Dale Black will also soon have a plaque there.
My achievement? I survived.
I survived in order to dedicate my career to improving aviation safety.
I survived to train scores of professionals to become better and safer pilots.
I survived a crash that took the life of two pilots and caused $70,000 worth of damage to the shrine.
After the first anniversary flight, still haunted by feelings of guilt, wondering if I had in any way been responsible, I tracked down the remains of the plane that had been taken away for salvage. The tail was in Van Nuys. The cockpit and engines were in Long Beach. So was the throttle quadrant. But the pieces of wreckage did nothing to solve the mystery that still haunted me.
I was finally able to retrieve a copy of the FAA accident report, and scoured it for answers. That official report revealed that both fuel selectors were in the ON position at the time of the crash. My feet had
not
turned them off. Also, both engines had been operating at full power on takeoff and on impact, so the problem wasn’t with the engines. I pored over the report of the accident, which cited “pilot error” as the cause of the crash.
Several factors contributed to the fatal crash that day. The intersection departure made for an unforgiving takeoff. The plane never increased to the proper speed. Gene had pulled the controls back too quickly and too sharply, lifting off the runway prematurely. The plane momentarily seemed to be airborne due to what is called “ground effect,” which is a false feeling of lift created by the plane’s proximity to the ground. When you climb to approximately one hundred feet, the ground effect goes away. When Gene noticed he didn’t have enough power to keep climbing, he applied full-throttle to the engines. Chuck stepped in, but he was too late. He tried to lower the nose to pick up speed, but it wasn’t soon enough to clear the trees. The left wing of our plane clipped the trees at eighty feet, which turned the aircraft just enough for a direct impact into the dome of the mausoleum. We slammed into the memorial at 135 mph, hitting it just five feet from the top. It was that combination of factors that caused the crash.
The crash was chronicled in all the newspapers in surrounding cities, and I’ve been told it was later memorialized in
Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Not quite the epitaph I was hoping for.
The epitaphs of others are noted on tombstones that fill Valhalla like so many tabs on file folders of the fallen.
Aviators are memorialized there, but also athletes like Gorgeous George, the wrestler. And countless actors. From Oliver Hardy of Laurel and Hardy fame to Ruth Robinson, one of the Munchkins in
The Wizard of Oz.
Even the voice of Jiminy Cricket is buried there, Cliff Edwards. Countless others are there, too. Who even remembers their names? Let alone the lives behind the names.
Located in North Hollywood, the cemetery is just off the end of Runway 15 at Burbank Airport, directly in the flight path. Since the opening of the airport, a new entrance to the cemetery was designated. Cars no longer drive through the shrine’s arches. An iron fence has been erected around the plaques inside the dome. And the three reflection pools have long since been filled in.
For the first couple of years after the accident, I went to the memorial every chance I got. Sometimes with family or friends, sometimes alone, about every two weeks.

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