I saw nothing. But the whiny song grew louder. And closer. Suddenly the tail end of a large tanker truck appeared at our corner. The driver never halted, but deftly backed around the restricted turn, then maneuvered through the twisted gambit of parked cars and motor scooters that lined our narrow street. He passed below me and stopped in front of the apartment building next door.

The mad melody stopped and left an enormous silence. The driver hopped down from the cab, went to the side of his vehicle and removed a long, green, flexible tube. He connected one end to a valve at the rear of his tank and the other end to a waiting receptacle near the apartment’s entrance. Then he returned to the tank and opened a valve. And waited.

Water! On the edge of a 10 million-person city, these residents depended upon a man to deliver their water. By truck.

Big truck? Tiny, crowded, crumbling streets? High need? Multiple deliveries every day? What could go wrong? I marveled at his ability, determination, and persistence. They needed him. Desperately. And for the five weeks we lived there, he never failed.

He was just like those MAF folks I know who sharpen their skill, work until the job’s done, and serve others day after day, month after month, year after year.

There are differences, of course. One rolls, the other flies. One plays a raucous tune, the other roars. And, while the truck delivers exhaustible, life-saving water, the MAF airplane delivers eternal, life-giving water. We need both.

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The first flight raced against desolation. A teenage girl, struggling to deliver her first child, lay beneath a tree. Her young husband paced the mud alongside. His eyes darted down to her. Up to the sky. Back to her. The village airstrip, their one connection to the outside world, remained empty, broiling in Amazon sun. Her moans offered the only counterpoint to the silence as every village ear strained. The dogs caught it first, heads suddenly up. The tiny buzz grew until kids heard too. Then adults. All stirred, looked northwest. The husband’s eyes widened. He inhaled sharply. Hope?

Little sound morphed into big noise and then to sight. The village crowd watched the red and white Cessna 206 circle overhead, descend, land, and taxi to a roaring halt before them. I jumped out. The village health promoter reported details—30 hours fruitless labor, mother exhausted, hardly able to breath let alone push. Her husband watched others lay her prone on the airplane floor. I fastened her straps, then buckled him into the seat next to her. All quiet while I prayed. Then I closed doors, strapped on harness and helmet, completed checklists and roared back into the sky.

A week later the second flight proclaimed God’s mercy. I circled again. Same descent and landing. Same roaring stop before the crowd. I hopped out. The husband followed, red and yellow toucan feathers atop his head framing a wide grin—despite stoic attempts. He turned and accepted a small, wrapped bundle. His wife stepped down next and reclaimed her prize. They gazed out, amazed at what they held, awed by what it meant. Then she smiled and opened the blanket to reveal the gift only God can give—new life.

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That life-and-death-decision environment fostered a single-minded attitude. During the typical 15 minutes at any strip, my inner worrier said I had better limit people interaction to the essentials only.  Safety and work counted, nothing more.

Trouble was, the people were too real. Sure, jungle flying required deliberate care. And, yes, all details mattered. But how important were my efforts if I didn’t also touch a human heart? So, trailing close behind safety lessons, came connect-with-the-people counsel. “That’s why we’re here,” my mentors said.

First, I tried jokes. Unfortunately, North American “funny” wasn’t the same as Amazon Jungle “funny.” My attempts yielded blank stares and puzzled brows.

Then I tried theater. Kids—especially the 8- to 12-year-olds—always clustered tightly about me. If I moved away from the plane, a gaggle followed. If I stood under the wing, some gently stroked the hair on my arms, fascinated. Their eyes tracked my every motion, their whispers commented on my every action.

One day, while weighing cargo bundles to load, I grasped a two-pound package. Instead of lifting it, I strained, shook, and groaned as if it was stuck to the ground. Finally, panting, I let go and declared it too heavy for me. “I need help!” I said.

I surveyed the crowd and asked a kid to load it for me. When the child lifted the parcel, I picked him up and carried both to the airplane. After he placed it inside, I set him down, saying I couldn’t have done it without him.

The kids whooped. The adults guffawed. In their eyes I suddenly morphed from sky-wizard to human being. As I tried variations at other villages, my prayer became that the open-door crack they now peered through would reveal Christ’s light shimmering on the other side.

The post Humor Me appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

And the writing and the revisions? I loved the topic and the story, but tapping the keyboard got old. After that, producing took almost as much work as writing—and wasn’t as much fun. But suddenly, the book was published.

Reminded me of an instrument flight. I closed the door to shut out cold drizzle and started the engine. The prop blast pushed silver parades of mist and water off the windscreen. After takeoff I climbed into gray soup and leveled off. No wide vistas. No sense of progress. Occasional bumps provided the only motion. I hung suspended in a timeless place, centering needles and matching dial readings with chart numbers. Suddenly, the clouds opened. The runway appeared and I landed.

Writing, it turns out, closely mirrors flying.

Every story includes three sections: beginning, middle, and end. All flights contain three phases: takeoff, cruise, and landing.

Stories require thought before putting words to paper. Flights demand planning before starting the engine.

Stories need guidance in their middle to make sense. Confusion constantly nags. Giving up can follow. Flights call for cockpit discipline to stay on course. Getting lost threatens. Fuel can run out.

Stories ask for care to reach the point. Flights insist on precision for tires to the kiss runway.

Writing and flying, in turn, demonstrate a key attitude for following the Lord. When Jesus gives us a story to tell, or a direction to move, three steps remain. First, we have to get up. Then, we have to suit up. And finally, we have to show up. That’s our part—choosing to obey.

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During the flight home the Owyhee mountains ran 15 miles southwest of my course, to my right. The Boise mountains paralleled them 20 miles on the northeast, to my left. Stretched between them, lay a 35-mile-wide swath the Indians called, “the Sagebrush Plain.” Before farmers and engineers brought irrigation, the land was all desert. Even today, miles of brown, summer-baked, dry rolling hills dominate. I imagined the rigors early settlers faced traversing the same valley I now passed over so easily in my swift aluminum bird.

Then I noticed. Scattered green patches punctuated the dreary desert. Some were towns, others only isolated ranches. But they all offered crucial relief—water, food, and shade. On the ground those places might remain hidden and unfound. From my pilot’s perch, however, I spotted them easily. Reminded me: when the eyes of my heart are opened by faith, I can easily spot the outposts of hope the Lord has laid out all across this life’s convoluted landscape. My challenge? I can choose to look from the right perspective. MAF’s opportunity? We can serve as purveyors of hope.

The post Outposts of Hope appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

Pastor Marcus sat on a shaded rock. Bugs sang a sharp, grating song. Calling birds and hooting monkeys punctuated the cacophony from the trees above. He batted the gnat cloud swarming his face and scanned the stony bank.

The surging river before him churned, spitting its defiance. Clearly he was going no farther today—maybe even for several days if he read the water right. He pushed the muddy stones at his feet and wondered, Wait it out or go back?

He thought about Anabelle, one of his parishioners, who could deliver anytime. Her husband, Fidel, was threatening to leave. Said the baby wasn’t his. They’d been squabbling for months, flinging ever more bitter insults and taunts. A few weeks before she confided her fears that Fidel had a girlfriend, if not a mistress. He, their pastor, was supposed to help. He wanted to help. He was trying to help.

He scanned the convoluted torrent again. What if the water suddenly lowered and I could get across to reach them? he asked himself. What could I actually do? He had no idea. But his mentor, Victor, who lived in town, would know. Trouble was, they’d had no contact for three months. Marcus considered walking to town to ask him. He could make it in a week. Maybe. Of course, he’d have to fight this same river.

“Lord?” he asked aloud, looking up. “What am I supposed to do? Do you even know I’m here?” The hot, hard sky didn’t respond. A slow, cold knot grew in his stomach. He shook his head and slowly rose, looked once more at the river. “Does it even matter?” he muttered.

He turned and trudged slowly up the slippery path towards his village. He stopped. An odd sound joined the jungle chorus. Like a faint insect, a steady buzz grew louder above the trees. He smiled despite himself and quickened his pace. Several minutes later, when he finally reached the clearing, he saw the red and white airplane parked at the far end of the airstrip. The pilot was opening the door. Passengers began stepping out. And one of them, the one with the gray hair, limped like Victor. “Thank you for high water, Lord,” he said aloud as he trotted closer.

So what happened the last time you felt lost on the backside of nowhere, certain that not even God himself remembered where you live?

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A bigger bird can fly a little more efficiently. The two-pound, seed-eating cardinal needs about half her body weight, or 1 pound of food per day. She spends her waking moments poking, pecking, and prying for the thousands she must crack to survive.

A 10-pound bald eagle does better still. He needs only 10% of his body weight or one pound of meat per day. He hunts, soaring, circling, riding on thermals when possible. Prey spotted, he dives at the mouse, misses the wary or grabs the careless, then flies away. He needs thirty or so successful strikes on the half-ounce creatures to stay alive.

Fortunately, we humans don’t have to fly tree to tree, fighting for our own 20 pounds of daily survival food. God designed us to take care of each other, so he feeds us differently. And we still get to fly. He gives us brains to build airplanes and skill to fly them.

Unlike birds, however, our marvelous flying machines require no food to exist. Morning by morning they stand ready, available. But to actually fly they need to eat too. For example, MAF’s ubiquitous Cessna C-206 burns an average of 18 gallons or 108 pounds of Avgas per flight hour. Keeping it in the air for six hours per day means the 3,600-pound airplane consumes 18% of its body weight or 650 pounds. The bigger Quest Kodiak carries more weight but also burns more gas. The same six-hour day for the 7,200-pound airplane demands 25% of its body weight or 1,800 pounds of Jet-A fuel.

That fuel—not flowers, seeds, or mice—feeds MAF flights. And thankfully we don’t have to fight for it. God designed us to take care of each other, so he feeds our airplanes too. Every gallon he provides moves us another four to seven miles, serving his people, advancing his Kingdom.

Care to feed our birds? Visit https://www.maf.org/donate/fuel-the-ministry

The post Feeding the Birds appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

Our modern GPS and older VOR navigation systems agreed on our position as did the view out the window. Seeing our destination 10 miles farther north, I radioed Flight Service and closed our flight plan.

I entered the expected traffic pattern for the public-use Cottonwood airport and made the expected radio announcements. Cottonwood has good approaches and a paved runway. Everything was, as expected in the US airspace system, where it was supposed to be.

I taxied off the runway onto a small ramp looking for transient parking, found none so stopped in the one open area. We exited the airplane and Regina called our ride. I walked, hunting for visitor parking. Finally found two tie-down spots with orange anchors. Both were off the pavement in a graveled area that seemed okay as I walked it.

We pushed the airplane towards the parking spot and the nose wheel made a shallow furrow in the gravel—as expected. The main wheels followed, but after traveling three feet broke through a thin crust and sank into softer pea gravel below. The airplane stopped.

We spent 40 minutes pushing, shoving, digging, heaving, and prying back those same three feet. Then, kneeling in the damp grit, I remembered. My unexpected mini-adventure mimicked MAF field pilots’ normal life. I didn’t expect to get stuck, but they face myriad challenges every day. Reminded me to be both thankful for my blessings here, but also to pray more for our crews in the field.

So I wonder, how have your expectations surprised you with unexpected challenges?

The post Unexpected Reminder appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

My hands smelled funny as I followed checklist steps. Item number 10 said “Pre-Heat – On” I flipped the switch up. A moment later the yellow light illuminated signaling a hot glow plug. No engine priming required. No cranking through several propeller rotations. Neither ignition key, nor magnetos to check. The engine had no ignition at all. I turned the starter key and the diesel engine sprang to instant life.

Standard C-182s burn Avgas (aviation gasoline). But this airplane used Jet-A fuel that smells like diesel. It’s the same thing airliners use. In the developing world, we have trouble getting Avgas. And when we do find a source, they charge—a lot. Also, a standard C-182 uses 13 gallons of Avgas per hour, but the bird I flew only 8 or 9. Clearly more economical.

I stuck my hand outside into the air blast, waved to the small group, pulled the window closed and taxied along the gravel strip to the takeoff position. In a few minutes I was in the air taking a pristine gift from the NTM Aviation base at McNeal, Arizona (73 miles southeast of Tucson) to MAF’s base in Nampa, Idaho. NTM (aka Ethnos360) donated this bird to MAF-US. We’ll do some modifications then donate it to MAF-International for service in Chad, Africa.

A couple hours after takeoff, as I climbed to 11,500 feet to cross one of the Grand Canyon’s special air corridors I wondered, “Why send this unique airplane to Chad?” The terrain below offered an answer. The north central African desert remains one of the most isolated places on our planet. But how was that different from the miles of desert below me? In Arizona, if I needed it, I could call for help. In Chad, however, MAF is the help.

The post Flying a Desert Diesel appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

The government did allow (but monitored) all MAF communications with jungle villages—weather reports, flight requests, and medical consulting. The doctor assigned by the Ministry of Health camped at the radio in our hangar, diagnosing and prescribing treatments possible within the villages’ limited resources.

Then it failed. The MAF repeater connecting us with village radios went mute. We exhausted every remote control option until only a physical trek remained. Easy in principle, daunting in execution. The repeater sat atop a mountain 6-hour’s climb from a jungle airstrip.

I appealed to the Army base commander for a single round-trip flight authorization.

“Not possible,” he asserted. “But …” he continued thoughtfully, “we could fly you there in our helicopter.”

The next morning a guard escorted fellow MAF pilot, Dave McCleery, and me to a shiny Aérospatiale Gazelle helicopter. The helmeted military pilots, dressed in Nomex flight suits and gloves, were already strapped in place. The crew chief opened the aft door, helped us stow our tools, and invited us to sit.

As we settled in, the crew progressed through pre-start checklists. Clean. Crisp. Impressive. Our hands automatically probed for seatbelts while we watched their professional ritual. Our fingers found only smooth seats. More probing. Nothing. We turned, thrust hands down the seat sides and back. Still nothing.

The crew chief on the ramp saw our search, walked close, shouted through the rear plexiglass, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen!” He smiled knowingly, gave us a thumbs up, then returned to his position. Dave and I looked at each other, realized we couldn’t find seat belts because no one ever installed them.

We completed our repair mission and, indeed, nothing happened. But it reminded me, neither hubris nor hope can substitute for God-based faith. Nor do they allow us to escape our fallen world. Bad things happen to good people. Made me appreciate MAF heeding scriptures like Proverbs 22:3, “The prudent sees danger and hides himself, but the simple go on and suffer for it.”

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