Surviving a Plane Crash, and What It Means

by Gordon MacDonald

Sixty-eight years ago—June 17, 1940—a squadron of B-18 bombers took off from Mitchell Field on Long Island. While gaining altitude, two of the planes collided over a block of homes in the town of Bellerose. They fell from the air spreading metal, glass, and flaming fuel all over the area. Twelve people (11 in the planes and one on the ground) died.
My interest in the event stems from the fact that I could have been the 13th fatality. A 14-month-old infant, I was in a playpen in the backyard of my family's tiny Bellerose home when the planes came down. Aviation debris, a little or a lot depending on who is telling the story, littered our yard except where my playpen was located. How dramatic is that?
Originally, my knowledge of the plane crash was based on my parents' telling of the story, and I heard it often as a boy. There came a time when those re-tellings became so burned into my mind that I became convinced I'd witnessed the collision myself. Even as I write these words I can see in my mind, as if watching a video, two planes high in the air. I see their tails entangling, and I see them plummeting downward.
But that "video" is a marvelous example of our unreliable minds that create "mental movies" of memories where none may actually exist. I "see" the plane crash event because my parents told me about it and left me with vivid impressions.
Recently I decided to revisit the plane crash story, and, without much trouble, found articles about it as well as a picture of the crash site in the archives of the New York Times. While my effort offered a few insignificant details I'd not known before, the story I'd so often heard as a child was substantially accurate.
Occasionally, when a conversation has needed some juicing up, I've volunteered the story of the colliding planes. Some upon hearing it have said, "You were sure lucky." Others have said, "I guess you never know when it could be your time to go." Actually, in the telling, I keep hoping someone will say, "Imagine how deprived the history of the world might have been if you'd not survived that day." But no one has ever said this.
My mother's "take" on the plane crash, however, was another matter. "God spared your life for some special reason; you have a very special destiny," she'd say whenever the day was recalled. Then she'd add with the aid of a pointed finger, "And God will judge you harshly if you don't find out what his will is and do it."
"I will," was all I could usually promise when she said that.
For many years my mother's words imposed a heavy burden. Think about it: your mother—this most important figure in your childhood—will not let you forget that you could have died, that you survived a spectacular accident for a reason, and that only God knows what the reason is. And so far he's not telling.
"Gosh," you say to yourself over and over again, "I better find out what God's reason is. I can't afford to botch something like this up." Out of such faulty thinking, it occurs to me, so much of our actionable theology is formed. In this case, my impression was of a secretive God who plays games like "Guess what my will is?" and promises severe consequences if you don't get the right answer.
So maybe you see why this plane crash might become such a seminal incident in my life. The fact is that I lived with its implications—my mother's anyway—for at least three decades. How interesting that an event in my fourteenth month of life could influence many of the choices I later made about faith, about call, about the way I determined to live. Again and again, on such choice-making occasions, I'd hear the faint voice of mother: "God spared your life for a reason." So, what was that reason?
Recently, after a lengthy intermission, the memory of the plane crash returned to me and prompted further reflection. I suppose that's why, this time, I researched it and verified the facts.
Out of all of this have come these further thoughts.
• The story and my mother's interpretation probably did as much as anything to lay the tracks for me to prepare for a life in Christian ministry. Having grown up in a Christian context, ministry of some kind—rightly or wrongly—was the only thing I could think of that might fulfill God's "reason" (as my mother put it) for me to be alive. I've accepted this with little protest, and the fact is that I have very few regrets about the course of my life as a pastor and a writer. I have been kindly treated, especially on those occasions when I shot myself in the foot.
• There did come a time midway through my pastoral years when I re-examined what it meant to be truly called in order to be sure that I had not made decisions about my life's direction that were more about mother-pleasing than God-pleasing. It was a healthy examination because it enabled me to redefine what I believed to be a call on my life and to feel confident about it. Today that updated call gets me out of bed almost every morning.
• My own experience has impressed me with how important it is for each of us to guard our tongues when we are tempted to launch our interpretations of someone else's experiences. People with the power to influence are often in positions to say something that can negatively alter the direction of another's life. I wonder how many have never recovered from advice irresponsibly given.
• On the other hand, what of those interpretive comments made in passing that suddenly send someone's life in an unexpectedly blissful direction. Examples: 1961: "Gordon, I've met a woman who would make you a great wife." (I married that woman 48 years ago). 1972: "Gordon, I've recommended you to a church in New England that needs a pastor." (I've lived in New England ever since). 1976: "Gordon, I have this conviction that you might have a writer's gift in you." (I'm presently working on my umpteenth book). Conclusion: the next time a plane crashes in my back yard, I'm going to consult a lot more people before I make up my mind as to what it means.