Miles To Go Before I Sleep (8 page)

Then I suddenly recalled the two Greek men who had forced their way to the head of the line at the Athens airport. At the time, I was really burned up about it. But from my new vantage point, it all seemed so trivial.
What was the big deal?
I could have chosen to let it bounce off me instead of getting mad. How pointless it is to get mad about things we can't control….

I thought about other ways that I'd let little things get in the way of really experiencing life. Before the hijacking, I'd been just as caught up in looking good and worrying about other people's opinions of me as anyone else. I'd defined success as having a good job, a nice house, and a relationship with a man.

I realized that none of these were bad to want, but that there was so much more to life than trudging off to work every morning, wearing the right clothes, and driving the right car. I realized how pointless it was to let others' opinions determine how I lived my life.

As death drew near, a strange, unfamiliar feeling rushed through me: I felt a strong, surging desire to live. I wanted to see my students, spend more time getting to know Scott, and keep learning and growing. I felt grateful that at least I'd followed my heart for two years. But there was so much more I wanted to do! I wanted to see my hair turn gray. I wanted to live to see my grandchildren some day….

If only I had more time.

For the first twelve hours of the hijacking, I stayed keenly alert, devoting all my mental and physical energy to planning a possible escape. During the night, I managed to work my hands free of the tie that bound them.

If I'm going to be shot
, I kept thinking,
I hope it's at night. Maybe I can crawl away in the dark. Or somehow knock the gun out of his hands and make a run down the stairs.
But they had guns and grenades. Maybe there were more bad guys around the corner that I didn't see—with more guns and grenades. And I was so tired….

I wanted to live so much, but it wasn't under my control. I did the only thing I could think of. I prayed the “Lord's Prayer” again.

One hour, then two hours went by. I kept praying.

Looking out the window, through the faint glare of headlights from the trucks surrounding our plane, I saw rain coming down in sheets. It was storming outside. Every now and then, lightning lit the sky.

Dear, God, I want to live. I put my life in Your hands.

All of a sudden, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky like I'd never seen before. Tears were pouring down my face as the rain poured down.

I suddenly knew I was going to be safe. I didn't know whether I was going to live or die; I just knew I was going to be safe. A wonderful, warm sensation flooded my body—and I felt safe. Nobody could hurt me. The hijackers could do whatever they wanted to my body, but I'm going to still feel safe.

I smiled and said, “Thanks, God.” As I said this, I no longer heard the noise of the plane's engines or children crying.

Whatever happens, happens
, I thought.
If I live, I'll be okay and if I die, I'll be okay.
That's what the safe feeling meant to me.

I'd never practiced meditation, but I entered that same calm, centered state of being. I turned all my worry and anxiety over to God. I stopped thinking about ways to escape. I let go of any attempt to control my destiny. I felt that either I was going to continue living on earth or I was moving on to another life. In either case, I was going to be all right.

I thanked God for my life, and I thanked God for the people that I got to share it with. I said good-bye to everyone in spirit—my parents, my friends, Scott, and my students.

More time passed. Soon, it was mid-morning. No one had been shot for at least four hours.

Maybe, just maybe, I'd be spared. I had prayed so hard. Maybe I was going to live. Maybe the hijackers negotiated an agreement to release us. A long break in the shootings gave me hope.

I briefly glanced behind me and saw the old Egyptian man I'd befriended early in the flight. “You're going to make it,” he whispered.

“It's not over yet,” I said quietly. “If you make it back to Cairo, go to the American School and get a message to my husband, Scott Pflug. Tell him I love him.”

It was about 10
A.M
. on Sunday morning, Malta time, when the executioner and his helpers came marching down the aisle, straight to my seat. The endless hours of waiting were over.

I still felt calm and centered. I was actually feeling sorry for the hijackers, that they had to do something like this to get their message across—one that I didn't even understand. I knew I was caught in the middle of something much bigger than me or the other passengers on the plane. And I was helpless to do anything about it.

My hands were still free, but I kept the tie wrapped around them. Again, I thought briefly about shoving the hijacker aside or kicking him in the groin and making a run for it down the staircase. But that thought disappeared quickly.

But it didn't matter anymore. I felt such an odd safeness, a sense that I didn't need to resist or control what was happening.

They picked me up out of my seat and walked me a few feet to the front of the plane. They positioned me so I was facing the door. I knew what was next.

Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. That's crazy. Who do I think I am?

One of the hijackers opened the door of the plane and I looked out onto the runway. The morning light stung my eyes. This was to be the last thing I'd ever see on earth.

The hijacker nudged me out onto the platform of the movable staircase pressed up against the plane. I felt the cold steel of a .38 caliber revolver dig into the back of my skull. I still felt safe.

In the control tower, Maltese officials heard our captain describe the chilling scene. “He is killing her now,” Captain Galal said. “Do something…. He is outside shooting her now…. I am the captain. You are wasting life; you are wasting life.”

The executioner squeezed the trigger. I felt an awful pressure in my ears, as my world exploded. I heard the hijackers speaking in Arabic. But it seemed to be coming from another world. I was leaving this one.

“He is killing her,” Captain Galal said. “He has killed her already, and in a few minutes he will kill another.”

A BANG, A FLASH, AND DOWN I WENT. It all happened so fast. Tumbling and floating, floating and tumbling. I was moving in a slow motion haze. It felt as if a massive surge of electricity was jolting through my skull. Splashes of light and color, a strange feeling of heaviness, a hazy numbness. It felt as though my eyes were pushed into the back of my head.

Then I was going down, down, down—into what?

I never heard the sound of my body crashing down the metal staircase like I had when the passengers before me were shot, but I knew I was falling.

Then it stopped.

Where am I? Is this heaven? Is heaven hard?

I was lying on a gray slab of concrete. I didn't feel anything as I fell twenty-five feet down the metal stairs onto the tarmac. Yet I was still conscious when my head hit the ground.

I don't know how much time went by, but I eventually opened my eyes—ever so slowly. I looked up and saw white, puffy clouds. I thought,
How strange this is all happening on such a beautiful day.

Then I quickly shut my eyes again.
I'm not dead, am I? How could this be? Am I hurt? How bad? I don't know.

I was disappointed to find myself still on earth. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I hadn't slept for so long, keenly aware that each hour might be my last.

I'm so tired. I thought this was going to be over. I just want to sleep. How much longer do I have to hang on?

I was sprawled facedown on the airport tarmac in Malta with a bullet in my head, my blood slowly draining onto the cement. My head was facing left, my left arm was under my chest, and my right arm was free and extended over my head. I was lying with my head sideways, at the foot of the metal staircase, so I could see the wheel of the plane through one eye. I felt a dull ache in my head and heard an irritating, high-pitched sound coming from the plane.

The first thing I had to do was keep myself from swallowing my tongue, because I kept trying to do that. I had to pee real bad, too. On the plane, I had decided it was just too risky to ask the hijackers for permission to use the bathroom. I couldn't hold it in any longer. Yet I was afraid the hijackers might notice the wet spot on my pants and the concrete and realize that I was still alive. I had to risk it….

Stay calm, just stay calm. Think. That's right, think. What do I do? Don't move. Whatever you do, don't move. Remember what happened to the Israeli woman. She moved, and she's dead.

Bang! Bang! Bang! One of the hijackers had pumped her quivering body full of lead. The metallic ring still echoed in my ears.

Keep your head down on the cement. Don't look up. Play dead and you'll live. Keep calm. Keep perfectly still. Don't move a muscle. Shallow breaths. Stay cool.

I was grateful that I was wearing an extra-large sized T-shirt. It meant that the hijackers couldn't tell my chest was moving while I breathed in and out.

My body was shutting down, my mind starting to fade. I was slipping away. The bullet in my head must have gone in too deep. I wasn't going to make it. I couldn't focus or think straight. I was losing control. Thoughts were drifting by.

For the next few hours I kept passing in and out of consciousness and sleep. I was so tired. Every time I came to, I expected to wake up in a new world. My thoughts were
Okay, God, you can take me. I'm ready to go.

The next thing I knew, a bright whiteness was all around me. It was my paternal grandmother, Grandma Nora Nink. I didn't speak. She was a whiteness to me, but I knew it was her. Grandma didn't use earth words to communicate, but I knew what she was saying. “Come, Jackie. It's time.” She was calling me to join her. As she did, I felt my spirit leaving my body. I saw my body lying facedown on the tarmac. The roaring jet engines were suddenly silent.

Grandma Nink was one of the people I most loved and looked up to in the world. Grandma was a small, thin-boned, German woman. Her head was slightly bent from osteoporosis, but her eyes sparkled with life. She was lots of fun to be with. She was so calm and patient with me. That made a real difference. At home, I always felt jumpy and nervous, afraid of spilling milk or knocking things over. Mom always said I was accident prone.

When I was with Grandma, I didn't get that jittery feeling. I settled down. I wasn't afraid of making mistakes. I loved helping Grandma cook. She patiently showed me how to do things such as cut cucumbers with a big kitchen knife. And she didn't hover over me while I learned. She showed me how to do one cucumber, then let me do the rest.