Many Thanksgivings ago, I received a gift. However, it took the guiding grace of God for me to understand it––years later––in the context of a spiritually bankrupt life.
Ninety seconds isn’t a lot of time. Nonetheless, an event can grab each second by the scruff of its neck and slow its progression as if one goes from gliding on ice to walking in tar. Such a time warp happened to me.
In a minute and a half over the bustling city of Oakland, California, I was confronted with three possible outcomes: life, death or the harming of innocent souls. The irony is that the best result for me, that I would live, could mean that someone else dies.
When I arrived at my first squadron in Yuma, Arizona, I stood on top of the world. As a young lieutenant, I was cocky, indestructible, pure warrior. Inexperienced yes, but it didn’t matter. I was a Marine Harrier pilot, the chosen one. As training is the constant theme for all Marines, within the first month I departed on a cross-country hop to Naval Air Station Alameda, California. Even though I was a fighter pilot, I was still required to log enough instrument flight hours to keep my rating current.
