Proof The Bible Is True

It was brisk and clear that February afternoon, ideal weather for getting shots of the construction site I’d been hired to photograph. At the Madison, Georgia, municipal airport, I made my preflight checks on my Cessna 172, inspecting the exterior—including the wings, fuel tanks, tires and engine. And then the interior—lights, gauges, instruments, radio and so on—as I went through the laminated pages of my checklists. A routine I’d followed diligently for 23 years as an aerial photographer.

 

I craved the comfort of routine. It had been a rough week for my family and me. We’d buried my brother-in-law the day before. Although he’d been ill, we’d expected him to pull through. His death made me reflect on life and how quickly it passes.

 

I buckled myself into the pilot’s seat and slung my camera strap around my neck. I put on my headset, started the engine and taxied to the runway. Just before takeoff, I paused to ask, “Dear Lord, please keep me safe.” The same prayer I said before every takeoff and landing.

 

I pushed the throttle forward all the way so it was fully open and pulled back slowly on the yoke. The single-engine Cessna soared into the Georgia sky. For the first time in days, my shoulders, my entire body, relaxed. Flying always had that effect on me.

 

I’m a numbers person. I like to quantify things—graphs, pie charts, measurements. That’s why I loved flying. It made sense to me. I understood wind force and drag, the power of lift and thrust. No mystery to them. Not like God. I’m a believer, a churchgoer, but it was hard to wrap my head around how he works. Sometimes I found myself trying to prove his existence with facts and figures. Up in the sky, though, my questions stilled, and I felt closer to God.

 

Thirty-five minutes after takeoff, I reached the construction site, which happened to be 10 miles southwest of giant Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. I love the challenge of aerial photography—flying low, performing acrobatic maneuvers with the plane to get the shots—and I set to it.

 

The wind whipped through the open window as I leaned out and snapped photos. I turned on the heater to knock off some of the chill. Within seconds, gray smoke filled the cockpit. The strong smell of oil told me it wasn’t an electrical fire. Was something wrong with the engine? I turned off the heater, and the cockpit cleared. That didn’t mean the problem was fixed.

 

I’d have to find a safe spot to land and check the plane. I pulled back on the throttle to reduce my speed. No response. I tried several times, pushing the throttle in and out. Nothing.

 

I didn’t know how I was going to slow down and land. In all my years of flying, I’d never had this happen. I’d never even heard of this happening!

 

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