by Lynn Austin
“Yes. But do you understand where Helen’s peace and freedom came from?”
He held up the worn Bible. “Now I do. Now that it’s too late. I’ve made such a mess of my life by trying to run it myself. I’ve caused a lot of hurt and pain, especially to the people I loved the most. I want to tell God I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry for messing things up. But I don’t know how. How can I ever make it up to Him, now that my life is almost over?”
“You don’t have to, Mike. If you’re truly sorry—and I know that you are—then God will forgive you.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Just like that?”
“When Jesus died on the Cross, it wasn’t for anything He had done. It was for all of our mistakes. All the things we’ve done wrong. If you accept His sacrifice as being for you—for your sins—then God will accept it too.”
“But why would He do that for me? I’ve screwed up!”
“If you had known that your son was going to die in Vietnam, would you have been willing to trade places with him? To die in his place?”
Mike covered his eyes. “I’ve wished it had been me instead of Mikey a million times over. He was only 19!”
“That’s why. God took your place and died for your sins because He loves you. Because you’re His child. His love is even greater than the love you have for your children. Jesus died so that you could have eternal life.”
“Eternal life? . . . But I’m dying.”
“When you look at God’s amazing love and see the sacrifice He made for you through His Son, can you still believe that He would destroy you forever, at death? God wants to give you life. Everlasting life.”
“Is that what this means?” He handed Wilhelmina a page from a letter. She read the lines he pointed to, aloud. “‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.’ Yes, Mike. That’s exactly what that means.”
“O God, forgive me!” Mike wept.
“Let’s talk to Him, Mike. Together.” She knelt in front of the sofa, and Mike knelt beside her, covering his face with his hands. They prayed together, weeping tears of repentance, tears of joy.
*****
When the sun rose that morning, Mike was sitting at Wilhelmina’s kitchen table, watching as she scrambled eggs, buttered slices of toast, and fixed a pot of coffee. The silence they shared was warm and full of understanding. Exhaustion numbed Wilhelmina, making her movements slow and clumsy. But the chorus of praise that she sang in her heart lifted her above her fatigue. The coffeepot swam in front of her as she blinked back her happy tears. As she set the food on the table, the telephone rang.
“Hi, it’s Carol. I need a ride to church this morning. Can you pick me up?”
Was it Sunday? Wilhelmina had completely forgotten what day it was. She glanced at the kitchen clock and realized she would have to hurry.
“Sure, Carol. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“Your voice sounds hoarse. Don’t you feel well, dear?”
“I’m fine, just tired. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Mike was studying his watch, not eating. “I’d better be going. You’ve got plans.”
“My friend Carol needs a ride to church. And I’m scheduled to play the organ.” She watched him push his scrambled eggs around on his plate. “Mike . . . would you like to come with us?”
“I would but . . . uh . . . I’ve got a flight scheduled this morning.”
“Another time, maybe?”
He didn’t look up. “Yeah, sure. Another time.”
Mike seemed unusually quiet as Wilhelmina quickly finished her breakfast. He ate very little. The silence between them felt awkward now, and she wished she didn’t have to rush off and leave him so abruptly. She was about to apologize for her haste, when Mike looked at his watch again, then quickly stood up.
“Gosh, it’s late. I’d better take off. Steve will be wondering what happened to me.”
Wilhelmina followed him to the door, struggling to find the right words to say. But before she could speak, Mike suddenly gathered her in his arms and held her tightly.
“Thanks. For everything,” he whispered. Then he was gone.
Wilhelmina dried her eyes and hurried upstairs to change for church. When she remembered the TV and newspaper coverage of the balloon race, she groaned. If only she could stay home today. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror in dismay. Dark circles ringed her eyes. They were still red and puffy from crying. Her hair was a fright, but there was no time to fix it properly. Carol was certain to comment on how awful she looked. But how could Wilhelmina explain to her the beauty of what happened last night? Nor the strange mixture of joy and sadness she now felt? Perhaps someday she would be able to share the miracle that she had witnessed and that God had allowed her to be a part of, but certainly not today. If she couldn’t even think about Mike without tears springing to her eyes, how could she possibly talk about what God had done in his life?
By the time Wilhelmina arrived at Carol’s house, she was later than she’d promised. Carol looked offended. She was lugging two plastic grocery bags filled with grape juice and saltine crackers, and she struggled to get into the car with them.
“Honestly, Wilhelmina. You know I’m supposed to be there early today. This is the last Sunday of the month, remember? That means it’s Communion Sunday and I have to—”
“The last day of the month?” Inside Wilhelmina’s weary mind something suddenly clicked. She remembered the letter from the aviation medical examiner on the dashboard of Mike’s truck. Peter had read it to her, slowly sounding out each word. She recalled how quiet Mike had been at breakfast, how hurriedly he had left, and Wilhelmina suddenly realized the truth. Mike’s medical certificate expired today. He was on his way to fly his last flight. She jammed on the brakes, sending Carol’s grocery bags flying off the seat onto the floor,
“Good heavens, Wilhelmina! What is the matter with you? You almost broke the juice bottles!”
“Carol, get out! Get out of the car!”
“Wilhelmina! What on earth—!”
“Don’t ask questions. There’s no time. Just get out!”
Carol groped for the door handle, her eyes wide with fright. “What is the matter with you?”
“I can’t go to church this morning. Tell Pastor Stockman I won’t be there.”
“But. . . what about the organ and—?”
“Carol, please! I’ve got to hurry!”
“But . . . but . . . how will I get to church?”
Wilhelmina shoved her purse into Carol’s hands. “Here. There’s money in my wallet. Take a taxi. Now please, get out of the car!”
Carol quickly gathered her parcels and opened the door. She stared at Wilhelmina in bewilderment as she stepped onto the sidewalk. “I don’t know what on earth has gotten into you lately, but—”
Wilhelmina never heard the rest. As soon as the car door slammed, she made a U-turn in the middle of the street, tires squealing, and left Carol standing beside the road in front of her house with two grocery bags and Wilhelmina’s purse piled high in her arms. Then Wilhelmina hit the accelerator and drove as fast as she could across town, pleading with God to get her there in time.
The area around the airport was a maze of access roads and hangars. Wilhelmina had no idea where to find Dolan Aviation. She drove wildly, trying to keep one eye on the road, the other on the dozens of signs that seemed to point her in every direction at once. She steered down one dead-end road after another until she was frantic. With little activity at the airport on a Sunday morning, no one was around to give her directions.
As she paused at an intersection, trying to decide which way to turn, she suddenly heard the roar of an airplane. A small, single-engine propeller plane sat on the taxiway at the far end of the road. Dear God, please let it be Mike!
Wilhelmina pressed her foot to the floor and sped down the road as fast as her car would go. When she g
ot to the end, she could read the dark blue lettering on the side of the plane: Dolan Aviation. But a tall, chain-link fence separated the road from the taxiway. She turned right and raced down the access road that ran parallel to the fence, searching for a gate. When she finally found one, she steered through it and drove full speed across the tarmac.
Mike was tinkering with something underneath the plane by the landing gear. He looked up in surprise as the car screeched to a stop and Wilhelmina jumped out. Her chest hurt from her pounding heart. What should she say to him? How should she begin? She told herself to slow down. She had to act calm, not panicked. She couldn’t scare him away again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in church?” Mike asked.
“I’ve decided to go flying with you today, instead. You promised me a ride, remember?” She had to shout to be heard above the loud drone of the engine.
Mike stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not this time, Willymina.”
She could barely hear him. She took a few steps closer, her open coat flapping in the wind. “But I’m ready to go now. Please let me come with you.”
“I thought you were afraid to fly.” He tried to grin, but there was pain in his eyes.
“You’re a good pilot. We’re not going to crash, are we?”
He looked away, gazing sightlessly across the taxiway toward the distant hills. “Can’t you understand? I’m just trying to spare my family a lot of grief and pain.”
“But you won’t spare them anything. They’ll feel the same grief no matter how you die or when.”
“Wilhelmina, please stop. Don’t make this any harder for me than it already is.”
All her life, Wilhelmina had worked to construct a barrier of caution and restraint, hardening it over the years to hold back her true feelings, to keep people at arm’s length, to avoid being hurt. But as she looked at Mike, she chose to destroy the wall of indifference. For the first time in her life, she opened her heart.
“Don’t you understand, Mike? I love you. I don’t want to lose you like this.”
“So you’d rather watch me die a little each day, is that it? Hooked up to a bunch of machines as if I wasn’t even human anymore? So you and everyone else can stand around and pity me?”
Warm tears flowed down Wilhelmina’s cheeks at the thought of Mike slowly wasting away. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Maybe this really is the best way. But I still want to go with you, Mike.”
He stared at her. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yes. I know.” She took another step closer to him. “All my life I’ve played it safe, never running the risk of being hurt. Until I met you, I never understood what it meant to live. Or to love. But now I do. You’ve changed my life. And now I don’t want to live without you. Please, Mike. Let me die ‘living’ too.”
A passenger jet roared over their heads, drowning out all other sounds. They stood on the windy tarmac gazing silently at each other. Then the jet was gone, leaving only the sound of the propeller as Mike’s plane idled on the taxiway behind them.
At last Mike shook his head. “I can’t let you come with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love you, too, Willymina Brewster. And your life isn’t over yet.”
“But neither is yours, Mike. Whether it’s one week or one month, you’ve still got the rest of your life to live. You can use whatever time God gives you to talk to your family, to share your new faith with them. Steve still feels bitter toward God. Show him God’s love. He’ll listen to you. You would know better than anyone else what to say to him. And what about Mickey? He wants to be just like you. Teach him what you’ve learned about trusting in God. And Lori, too. She has heard so many conflicting stories about heaven and hell she doesn’t know what to believe. But she would believe you. She loves you so much, Mike. And little Peter . . . well, this will break Peter’s heart. He thinks you’re the greatest pilot in the world. . . . You told me last night that you wanted to stop controlling your own life and let God take over—”
“I do! But I don’t understand . . . about death, I mean. I don’t understand what God is doing—why my life has to end this way.”
“You don’t need to understand. Remember when your plane went down over France? You had to trust your saviors and follow them wherever they led you, whether you understood it or not. If you had tried to find the way home yourself, you never would have made it. But you trusted them and you ended up home again, safe and sound. That’s the way it is now, Mike. We couldn’t understand what God wants to do with our lives even if He explained it to us. We don’t speak His language. But we have to trust that whatever He chooses for us is for a good reason and that—”
She stopped short, hearing her own words as if someone was speaking them—to her. “Oh, Mike! I’m talking to myself! God is saying this to me, too!”
“What do you mean?”
“I have always been in control of my own life, too. I’ve had it all planned and structured, and I have been mad at God for destroying those plans. When I lost my job at the college, it was as if God told me I had to die. I haven’t wanted to submit to His will, either.”
Mike wrapped her in his arms and she laid her head on his shoulder. “But if we’ve really given our lives to Christ,” she said, “then our lives should be His, to use in whatever way He chooses.”
“So, what you’re saying is, if I’m going to trust God with my life, then I guess I’ve got to trust Him even when He asks me to die?”
“Yes. And I do too.” A small private jet swooped over their heads and landed on the nearby runway. Mike kissed her softly on the cheek, then smiled at her through his tears. A genuine smile, with all the familiar warmth and humor sparkling in his eyes once more.
“Hey, Willymina Brewster. Did I hear you say you came for that plane ride I promised you? Well, my Cessna is just standing here, all ready to take off.”
Wilhelmina’s heart began to pound with a new fear. She drew a deep breath. Her life was in God’s hands.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”
He took her arm and helped her climb into the passenger seat, then ran around to the pilot’s side and got in. He gave the engine more throttle, and the little Cessna roared to life. The plane vibrated beneath her. Wilhelmina gripped the seat cushion as they taxied across the tarmac. She looked down the long, open runway and felt her stomach roll over in fear.
“Relax. It’ll be smoother than riding in my pickup truck.”
“Anything’s smoother than your pickup truck!”
The voice of the air traffic controller crackled over the radio. “Roger, Cessna Three-Fox-Charlie, you’re cleared for takeoff. And you’ve got a great day to fly, Mike. Ceiling and visibility unlimited.”
Mike smiled at Wilhelmina and gave her a confident “thumbs up.” He was at home in this cockpit. She could see how much he loved to fly and how happy it made him to share his joy with her.
He pushed the throttle forward, and the little plane shot down the runway. Moments later it lifted smoothly off the ground and soared into the clear, blue sky.
Epilogue
April 1988
Wilhelmina parked her Buick by the side of the road and turned the engine off. In the backseat, Buster and Heinz began to bark. “Behave now,” she told them. “I’m afraid you have to wait here. I won’t be long.” She gathered up the bouquet of daffodils and tulips she had picked from her garden that morning and got out of the car.
The early morning air felt cool, but the brilliant spring sun shone warmly on Wilhelmina’s back as she walked across the cemetery lawn to Mike’s grave. The brown scar of earth stood out against the yellow-green grass all around it. But now that winter was over, new grass would soon grow, and by summer his grave would blend in with the ones on either side—Helen’s and Mike Jr.’s.
Wilhelmina ran her fingers over Mike’s name, etched into the tombstone—Michael G. Dolan—a s if trying to accept the truth in
her heart that he was really gone. Then she knelt and began to place flowers in the bronze pots on each grave. She was so engrossed in her work, so absorbed with her memories of Mike, that she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps behind her.
“Morning, Miz Brewster.”
She gave a little cry and turned to see Mike’s friend Max Barker standing behind her. He tipped his hat slightly, then jammed it down on his head once again. “Sorry, Ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He was the same old Max with his stocky build and bulldog scowl, yet this morning he looked different. She couldn’t decide why. She rose, brushing the dirt off her knees.
“That’s alright, Mr. Barker. I didn’t hear you coming, that’s all. Where’s your truck?”
“I walked over. I only live a couple blocks from here. Get my exercise this way.”
The cigar. That’s what was missing. Max was no longer chewing on his soggy, unlit cigar. He looked naked without it. He gestured toward her car.
“Are them Mike’s dogs?”
“Yes. They came to live with me after . . . now that . . .” She looked down at the ground for a moment, unable to say the words, then back at Max. “They make very fine watchdogs.”
He gave an ambiguous grunt and kicked at a stone with the toe of his shoe. “Keepin” busy, Miz Brewster?”
“Me? Why, yes I am. Almost too busy. I’ve joined the faculty, part-time, at the community college, so I’m traveling there three times a week. And I’ve got a dozen private piano students that I teach now, including Mike’s granddaughter Lori. I’ve also started a concert series at some area nursing homes, besides all my volunteer work at the Cancer Center.”
He grunted again and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “Guess you’re a busy lady.”
“How about you, Mr. Barker?”
“Call me Max.”
“Alright. How have you been, Max?”