The Pilot: A Short Story
When cars drive past the bright blue farmhouse off of Highway 61 in the Mississippi Delta (the house with the bright yellow crop duster parked nearby), their drivers might notice a giant propeller mounted on the front porch. If they slow down enough, they might also notice an older man sitting on the porch in a worn rocking chair, resting his real leg on a wooden box and fiddling with his prosthetic leg as he watches another crop duster do an aerial ballet across the road. They might wonder what the story was behind this odd scene and that curiosity might cause them to stop. And if they did, they would be greeted warmly by the man, who’d invite them on to his porch for a glass of sweet tea. If they accepted his offer, they’d find out he was a pilot and hear his story of life, death and rebirth. How he had crashed his crop duster, died in the wreckage, saw his dead wife, and miraculously came back to life. As they listened to the cicadas sing, they’d hear the pilot’s war stories: How he’d flown an A-1 Skyraider in Vietnam, had once been considered a hero in an unpopular war and returning from the jungle after being shot down. They’d hear how had come home broken from the war because of PTSD caused by being shot down, lost the love of his life because of his own ego and then her cancer, nearly lost his son to their mutual stubborn pride, and then saved his granddaughter from being lost in the Delta when she was just a toddler. By the time the listener got through the glass of tea, they’d find out that this incredible man had seen what is in the next life as he was calmed by his wife’s spirit while first responders cut him out of the plane’s twisted wreckage.
That wreck had cost him his leg. But it had given him a glimpse into the next world. And that glimpse put this one into perspective.
The pilot did not suffer fools gladly. He understood that every second counts. He did not worship men. He knew the only way out of pain was to face it head on. He knew fences made good neighbors but brick walls did not. And he did not give a sh*t what people thought of him.
He had earned that freedom. His demons had caused him to fly like a madman through the Delta skies chasing Angie’s ghost. Yet, he never found her until his plane lay crumpled and smoking half buried in the rich Delta soil. God, with Angie as His guide, gave the pilot a choice to live or die that day.
The pilot, out of his love for his granddaughter Angie, chose to live. Love brought him back to life. He had finally found his wife Angie, but chose to stay and help raise her namesake.
The traveler would listen to the pilot’s incredible stories and walk away with the understanding that the Devil manifests himself in the form of fear. And that to truly fight it, you can’t turn inward. You must love others. And you did that through service. That this incredible man’s spirit soared higher than any plane could fly.
The propeller was from the pilot’s wrecked Airtractor. Scratched and battered it was all that remained from the day the pilot was truly born.
But the cars and their drivers just passed the blue farm house without stopping. They would never meet the pilot and hear about his incredible journey.
That was their loss.
