I love being in the sky. I’ve got an adventure résumé filled with aerial adrenaline rushes, including jumping out of planes. So, it’s a bit ironic that I get nervous on airplanes during turbulence. Sometimes, straight out scared. I use the free drink napkins to dry my hands on multiple flights per year. Every time those wings flex, the idea of them falling off the fuselage crosses my mind.
I’ve told myself for the better part of a decade that I’d be less scared, if I were flying the plane. I was convinced that it was a control issue, an education issue (knowing what the plane could handle).
Until Saturday, August 8.
My client and friend had been flying me around Washington, Oregon, and Idaho for a couple days. Scott is an experienced pilot, especially in the particular kind of bush plane we were using to survey the backcountry mountains. Lots of his little choices had convinced me of his prowess, even as we bounced through a barrage of summer thermals.
We were flying over crop circles east of Walla Walla, when I got my reality check. Out of the blue, Scott’s voice crackled in my headset, “It’s your plane now. Take the stick.”
“What!?”
Scott pulled out his iPhone and reiterated that I needed to steer the plane. When I told him I had flown enough, he refused to intercede—encouraging me to lean into the experience. He chuckled, as I blurted nervousness over the radio. At one point, he clapped his hands in laughter. It was probably after I tried to correct our attitude after minor turbulence knocked us out of level.
I wouldn’t call my performance flying. I wouldn’t say I was in control of the plane, either. I wasn’t working the pedals or throttle. I wasn’t really watching the horizon. The plane pretty much maintained the straight course on which Scott had left it. From the back seat, I was peering over Scott’s shoulder at the attitude indicator with occasional peeks at the altimeter. Scott mercifully took the stick back after five or ten minutes. My time “in control” was long enough to grab a life lesson.
I’m a control freak. That’s part of why I’m a freelancer instead of a business owner. That may be why I don’t like driving vehicles with automatic transmissions. I know that’s why my wife doesn’t do the laundry. That’s also why I let other guys set out the parking lot cones at church only when I’m traveling.
And that’s why I have a lot of regrets.
I usually and easily trust others who demonstrate prowess I don’t have, but I have a hard time delegating to others who don’t value what I value. Even my friends, family, and wife. Worse yet, I regularly don’t let God tell me how to do life. Even if my ride is bumpy and far from level, I assume I’m more comfortable than if I were to give the controls to Benevolent Omniscience.
That wrong assumption has led me to financial hardships, chronic physical injury, decimated friendships, marital conflict, business failures, and periods of spiritual emptiness. Despite the repetitive nature of those consequences, I struggle to let go of the passenger seat stick—let alone ask God to take over the controls. So, I sweat; and I worry; and I ask God to guide me through the limited choices that ensue from my actions.
For some reason, he does. He’s good like that.
Now, every time I’m palming a napkin back in coach, I’ll know the flight would be no smoother if I were at the stick. Hopefully, I’ll be reminded that the same is true of my life as a whole.
