THE OBJECT OF GOD'S GRACE

THE God's Grace OBJECT OF

On a sunny Sunday afternoon in October many years ago, as I sat in my condominium in Naples looking out over the Gulf, I reflected on my life: My beautiful, loving, self-sacrificing wife of twenty-four years, the mother of my two daughters, had died of lung cancer just two months before. I had sold our home and bought the sailboat she and I had been looking at before her diagnosis. Now

I wondered what it was all about. Why had this happened? What was I going to do?

We had no warning. She went into the hospital for tests for pain in her left hip in early July. Twenty-eight days later, she was dead. We had no time to communicate our love and feelings. Yes, I was indulging myself again and was feeling sorry for myself.

I thought about the Browning 9mm I had bought for flights to Vietnam. It would be so easy to blow away the pain. But that was wrong. I thought about the implications for my family, what God had been in my life, what Sunday school and the Church had been for me. I came to the conclusion that either it was all true—or it wasn’t. Either God entered into the body of a man, suffered terrible torture and death, and rose again to tell us how much he loved and forgave us and wanted us to follow his lead—or it was a complete fabrication.

I began to look at some of the events in my life. I remember the time at age five when I slid into a muddy pit, where the water came up to my chin. I began to sink in the mud. I couldn’t swim. But, as I looked up into the sky, thought about God in a small boy’s way, I felt peace of mind after the initial panic and I slowly crawled out.

At age six I was unconscious for about an hour and a half after I fell more than twenty feet out of a tree, missing a wheelbarrow and piles of glass and stones on the ground. It was only recently, after I heard about out-of-body experiences, that I understood why I was standing on the west side of the room watching people come and go while my mother was holding someone who looked like me in her lap on a couch on the east side.

I guess I was lucky both times.

I attended Sunday School regularly on my own, without urging from my loving parents who rarely went to church. I became head of the Youth Fellowship and the Hi-Y and even thought briefly about the ministry as I headed off to college. But since I had always wanted to fly, I joined the Air Force ROTC upon entering college. I became head of this and president of that, co-captain of the swim team, adjutant of the ROTC, and V.P. of the Protestant Youth Fellowship.

I also loved to party. Didn’t everybody?

Just as I passed off the two incidents I mentioned earlier as just lucky moments, I did so at another time, coming back to a friend’s house from a college party in my mother’s two-door Studebaker with no seat belts, my brother next to me in the front seat with my best friend and roommate on his right. It was a dark night and the road sign indicated only a slight right-hand turn, but we spun nearly ninety degrees. Over and over and round and round we went. The car was virtually destroyed, yet the only injury was a bump on my brother’s knee as he flipped into the backseat.

I was glad and I thanked God, but in an off-hand way. I was lucky. I mean, He couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Could He? He had plenty on his plate with running the universe and all which that entailed. Besides, I didn’t deserve any special consideration.

When I went into the Air Force, it was more of the same: fly hard, party hard. I married my high school and college sweetheart. Again, I was lucky. We started a family. But I rarely went to church, rarely was home. I flew all over the world. I loved my family very much but hardly ever prayed or read the Bible.

All during my flying career, I kept losing engines. Fortunately, we usually had four to start with. On my initial checkride, we lost three airborne and number four just as we landed. On my checkride for aircraft commander over the Atlantic, we lost two engines and were preparing to eject ourselves into the ocean. Our first engine restarted and we managed to limp into the Azore Islands. Another time, we nearly crashed into the Pacific out of Wake Island when a gyro froze, showing us straight and level when in fact we were in an increasingly steep turn to the left. Again, I just passed it off as lucky.

But there’s one time I especially remember, because I’ve never been able to deal with it. At the time, I was a flight examiner for C-124s, a kind of heavy-duty cargo aircraft. The pilot examinee was in the left seat for his checkride for aircraft commander. We were returning from Europe through the Azore Islands to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware via Stephenville, Newfoundland, with some cargo and a crew of six. It was forecasted to be good weather in Stephenville, which is located at sea 35

level on the west coast, at the bottom of a valley which rises fairly quickly eastward into the mountains. As we began our descent down through the valley, we could see clearly the air force base twenty miles to the west. At about five thousand feet, we noticed some clouds coming in rapidly from the northwest. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon. The clouds were about at traffic pattern altitude, moving much like a time-lapse camera would show them in a Hollywood film. There was something very eerie about it all. We mentioned it to approach control, who had no forecast of any weather nor any reports from weather control.

Just after leveling off at a thousand feet for a righthand, downwind, ground-controlled approach, number one engine failed. We shut it down and I directed the pilot to continue the approach, but I would take over on final descent. From the middle of the downwind to base leg, we were engulfed in clouds, strong winds, and blowing snow. Because there was no report of increased wind on the ground, the radar controller had not compensated for it and we were blown off course, too high to make a safe landing. I could see the field and the dim outline of the runway through the snow, although no lights had been turned on. I should have landed but decided to make a 360-degree turn and then land. As we turned right onto the downwind leg again, the controller asked us to extend the downwind leg to allow two KC-97s to take off.

I gave control back to the pilot and continued to look out the side window at the runway. He didn’t acknowledge me, and I turned toward him. The warning horn was still blowing, adding to the noise as I reset the throttle. The instrument lights were low, and light was fading as I looked up ahead. Materializing in front of us was the gigantic figure of the Grim Reaper. The bottom of his robe was just above the water, and his shrouded head was about a thousand feet above us. On his right side he carried a large scythe, which was moving toward us. I quickly looked toward the pilot who seemed frozen with his hands in his lap.

No one was flying the airplane.

I had always pictured myself looking in at a lively Christmas party on a cold, snowy evening, much like those kinds in a Charles Dickens story, doing what I thought was the norm but not knowing how to get in. As I sat there that Sunday afternoon looking at my life, I came to realize that it wasn’t that I was lucky, but that God had loved me all that time, that I had been the object of God’s grace. Not only was it true that he died for me on the cross, but he loved me when I was a sinner, so unlovable and so unworthy. I saw that I had been sitting on a pasture fence, wanting all that God had in one pasture but also wanting what the world had to offer in the other. 36 do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. So Isaiah 41:10

The airspeed was falling through 103, the gear was down, the flaps were full, and we were about to stall and fall into the icy water below. I swore at the figure, told him he was not going to get us, shoved the throttles forward, raised the flaps and the gear, and flew out of that impending stall.

The figure evaporated as quickly as it had come. We continued with the ground-controlled approach and landed safely. I was so stunned by all of this that I never mentioned it to the crew, much less the pilot. Nor, frankly, have I ever been able to deal with it. What was it that I saw? Why? Why? Was it something God put there to warn me that we had a problem, for surely without it, I would not be here today. Maybe he wanted to save someone else on that crew; it couldn’t be me. I didn’t deserve it.

I had to put all this behind me so I could continue with life. Ten years later, after leaving the Air Force and some job changes, I was transferred to Clearwater, Florida, where I had lived once before. Coming from Connecticut, I expected to find what I was missing in life, the faith in which I became a lay reader, vestryman, Sunday school teacher, Diocesan Convention Delegate, and a recent applicant to seminary. I remembered that Christianity seemed stronger in the South, with more churches and active lay people. Locally and in my business travels of five days a week, I met men who had committed their lives to Jesus Christ, men who had some kind of a personal relationship with Him, men who tithed and who were not afraid to talk about Jesus with others.

By now I had my own twin-engine airplane that I flew all over the thirteen southeast states, as well as up to New England. One day I was giving a lift to Connecticut to two friends and a child. Just after leveling off at six thousand feet, all hell broke loose as the aircraft began to vibrate ten to fifteen inches in every direction. I didn’t know that we had lost six inches off of one blade on my right engine. Every time I tried to shut it down, it got worse, so I reduced RPM to eighteen inches and 1800 RPM and with prayer returned to Clearwater Executive Airport, the whole time thinking the right engine would tear out of the right wing, taking the wing with it. But I was lucky again.

That same year my eighteen-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a likely malignant adrenal cancer, which was fatal. I prayed a great deal and handed her over to God, who gave her back to me. The tumor turned out to be benign. We were fortunate.

My understanding, my faith, my trust, and my love for God grew.

I had always pictured myself looking in at a lively Christmas party on a cold, snowy evening, much like those kinds in a Charles Dickens story, doing what I thought was the norm but not knowing how to get in. As I sat there that Sunday afternoon looking at my life, I came to realize that it wasn’t that I was lucky, but that God had loved me all that time, that I had been the object of God’s grace. Not only was it true that he died for me on the cross, but he loved me when I was a sinner, so unlovable and so unworthy. I saw that I had been sitting on a pasture fence, wanting all that God had in one pasture but also wanting what the world had to offer in the other.

So yes, it is true: God’s grace and love abound. My life at the Christmas party began. I got down off that fence and really began my Christian walk toward God. Now I know what it means to have a personal relationship with God, a personal savior, my Lord and Father. I know what it really means to be a Christian layman, a Christian husband to a new wife and a Christian father. There are still problems and temptations occasionally from the devil, but my trust is in the Lord. There is no other. His grace abounds.

FAITH Journeys

The faith journey testimonial is a custom at many of our parishes, often at coffee hour or at retreats and gatherings. Writer Donald Scott, featured here, is a parishioner at Trinity-by-the-Cove, in Naples. He has given a version of this faith testimony to the church’s men’s group. We invite your faith stories in Southern Cross, and are grateful for his contribution. If you would like to share your faith journey, please email it to