Yesterday on my cottage-by-the-sea blog I wrote about my bus buddy, Pete, who had just climbed Ben Nevis and was on his way to the Glasgow airport for his fifty minutes flight back to his home in the Midlands of England. Pete, age 68, was an seasoned mountain climber but the flight to Scotland two days prior had been his very first ever, and he was petrified about the return trip.
Pete was a dear, gentle man. His wife had died the year before and his buddies, younger than he, were doing their best to help him muster courage to keep going in life by using his hiking skills to gain confidence in conquering new heights, namely flying. If he could feel okay taking off in a rather small plane, in a storm no less, he’d be okay taking steps to create a life without his wife.
Pete had already gained some confidence from his first flight, which had been accompanied by Hurricane Katie, and he felt a tiny bit reassured that the flight home would be calmer. But when I told him that I’d be praying for him when he took off at 9:30 that evening, I felt a palpable sigh of relief. Pete and I were angels meeting each other at the perfect moment, so it seemed.
Pete was a dear, gentle man. His wife had died the year before and his buddies, younger than he, were doing their best to help him muster courage to keep going in life by using his hiking skills to gain confidence in conquering new heights, namely flying. If he could feel okay taking off in a rather small plane, in a storm no less, he’d be okay taking steps to create a life without his wife.
Pete had already gained some confidence from his first flight, which had been accompanied by Hurricane Katie, and he felt a tiny bit reassured that the flight home would be calmer. But when I told him that I’d be praying for him when he took off at 9:30 that evening, I felt a palpable sigh of relief. Pete and I were angels meeting each other at the perfect moment, so it seemed.
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