Pilot

It’s a sad commentary on a man’s life when the pastor struggles to say something real at his funeral.  Pastor Tom presided over my dad’s funeral yesterday.  My dad was unknown not only to this pastor–but to the 20 family members huddled in the pews.   We all felt anxious at the prospect of sitting through this impersonal service.

Pastor Tom made polite, generic comments and managed to misappropriate praise and mispronounce the family name.  It was excruciating. 

My dad was not a generic man.  He was complicated and very proud of that family name.   Finally Tom asked my brother Leigh to say a few words.   ”Thank God,” we all thought.

“Today we are burying a pilot,” Leigh said.  We breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Yes, we all nodded, we do know this.  We are burying a pilot who loved flying more than anything else in his life. 

At the age of 21, he flew B-17 missions over the European Theater.  In his late 20s he flew the wounded out of Korea.  Soon after he was sent overseas to attend the war college in Great Britain.  In his early 40s he flew nighttime reconnaissance in Vietnam.  In between these days of freedom they parked him at a desk at the Pentagon and sent him home to us in the suburb, which was death to him.

Leigh read from two selections, ”I’ll Fly Away” and “The Pilot’s Prayer.” We were grateful that he provided something meaningful–something authentic.  We continued to nod, as if to say, “Yes–this is good.  He would have liked this.”

I brought home a few items from the boxes my brother collected from Dad’s second wife, Dot.  Photos of him at 21, his hair as black as Superman’s.  The ribbons he wore with his dress uniform.  These were the brightest remnants from a life of that resisted being earthbound.   He resisted being a father, husband, brother, uncle, grandfather…he was a pilot.