My family and I had just sat down to breakfast when my cell phone rang. On the line was a health-clinic worker in Playa Grande, a tiny village in northern Guatemala, about 30 miles east of our home in our own tiny Guatemalan village, Mayalan.
“We have a kid with appendicitis who needs to go to Coban,” the clinic worker said. The nearest hospital is there. “Can you take him?”
I’ve worked as a medevac pilot in remote Guatemalan villages on and off since 2003. My wife, Jennifer, and I both fly. We took a 30-foot Cessna Skymaster 336 that belonged to Great Commission Air, outfitted it with a stretcher and basic medical supplies, and moved from Michigan to Mayalan to ferry the sick—to do what we believed to be the Lord’s work.
“I’m on my way,” I said.
The 15-minute flight to Playa Grande was routine. Minutes after I landed, a pickup truck roared to a stop at the airstrip. A boy got out, doubled over in pain. His name was Ludim. The clinic worker and I strapped him loosely into a passenger seat. We didn’t want the seat belt to pinch his belly.
His mother, Teresa, scampered into the copilot seat beside me. Two more people boarded, as well: a mother and her sick baby. They needed to get to the hospital too—a 20-minute flight away, over relatively flat terrain. I make dozens of these trips a month.
I closed the hatch and placed my hand on the throttle, readying for takeoff. Teresa stopped me. “Can we pray first?” she asked. “Today is my son’s birthday.” She looked at me with begging eyes. If she only knew I had my own need to pray, I thought.
I fingered my shirt—a gift from my wife. Embroidered on it were the words, “Dios es Mi Piloto,” which means, “God is my pilot.” Every bush pilot knows the risks. When you fly solo into remote areas, sooner or later something is bound to go wrong. But this morning I was worried more about the future of our work, the well-being of our family.
Jennifer and I had two young children—Genna, eight, and Beto, four. Money was always an issue. Lord, I’d asked, will we be able to find the funds to continue our mission?
I looked at Teresa and struggled to block my own worries from my mind. “Yes, let’s pray,” I said.
Minutes later we were airborne. Conditions were perfect. Beneath us were mountains and jungle that took my breath away. Still, I couldn’t forget our fundraising responsibilities. Several times we’d been forced to return to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to raise more money. How many times before the well ran dry?
Focus, I told myself. We were approaching Coban. I dropped down over a low, sharp ridge of mountains, about 1,000 feet above the ground. Time to deploy the wing flaps.
All at once the plane rolled to the right and veered out of control. Bang! From the sound, I thought the rear engine had exploded. I looked out the windshield. The cable controlling the right wing flap had snapped.
I pulled left on the yoke, praying that the plane would right itself. It kept rolling. We were nearly upside down and losing altitude fast. I was familiar enough with the airstrip to know what lay below. We were headed straight for an ammunition factory.
Silently, I prayed, God, I don’t want to die like this. Not with a planeload of people. Not when there’s no one to look after my family.
The plane dove…800 feet, 600, 300, 100 feet above the ground, barely above the treetops. We were coming up fast on a boulder-strewn river valley—sure death if we tried a landing. We were going to crash, that was certain. The only question was: Where?
There was a tree-covered ridge to the left. No chance of survival. I aimed us toward the lower right ridge and fought to keep the plane level. I fingered my shirt. What was that old bumper sticker: God is my copilot? We’re going to need more than that. God, you are my pilot.
Just then we slammed into the ground with a tremendous roar. The plane severed every tree in our path. It seemed like nothing could stop us. The plane rose on its tail and flipped over backward—once, twice, three times. We kept barreling forward. I could see the precipice of the ridge straight ahead.
The seats in the cabin snapped off and flew to the rear. The windshield smashed. Jungle grass filled the cockpit. The passengers—the two sick children and the other mother—lay in a heap. We were nearly to the peak. This is it. Oh, Jennifer, I thought.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the death plunge.
Instead, there was an ear-shattering screech. The next thing I knew, the plane had bucked to a halt. I peered out the busted cockpit window. One of the wings had wedged against a tree on the uppermost part of the ridge. Another few feet…
I forced the thought from my mind. I turned instead to Teresa. She was alive. For a second we just sat there, too shocked to speak. We’re safe, I thought…till I spotted gasoline dribbling into the cockpit. The gas tank had ruptured.
“We have to get out of here!” I shouted.
I hustled Teresa, the baby and the baby’s mother out of the plane. One passenger was still missing. “Where is Ludim?” Teresa cried.
I climbed through the wreckage to the back of the plane. Ludim was wedged beneath a broken seat. I pulled him free. Was he unconscious? I saw his chest move up and down.
Teresa and the others were waiting by the door. With Ludim in my arms, I jumped to the ground. “Run!” I ordered. “Run before the plane explodes!”
We lit out through the rugged woods and didn’t stop till we were about 200 feet away.
Within minutes we heard voices. A truck carrying bomberos—volunteer firemen—had seen us crash and rushed to our rescue. They carried Ludim and the baby to the road and drove them and their mothers to the hospital. I stayed behind with my busted plane.
We’re safe, I thought, relaxing for a moment. Then a troubling thought intruded. How will I care for my family now? How will we continue our work?
I fingered the embroidery on my shirt. God is my pilot. If he could watch over my passengers and me, protect us in this crash, then surely he could help Jennifer and me start over again.
A week later our family was at the airport, waiting for our long flight back to Michigan. It could take a year, we knew, to raise enough money for a new plane and return to Guatemala, where we belonged, doing the Lord’s work. Why else would he have brought us all through that terrible crash safely?
Sometimes we’ve wondered, during this long, most recent stretch of fundraising, whether it’s worth it. Our children have been uprooted so many times. I worry about how Jennifer and I will manage without a bigger nest egg when it’s time to retire. How much help can we give with one little plane?
It’s moments like these when I remember Teresa and Ludim, and the faith they place in bush pilots like us. I wear Jennifer’s shirt, the one that reads, “God is my pilot.” I finger the embroidery, and am reminded again that we can’t make it without God’s help—and that with his help, we’re doing the right thing. We’re doing his work.
