To those whom much has been given

It was thirty years ago, nearly to the day. My Grandpa Wolf passed away at the end of December and I remember that my mom had driven up to Logansport to help write thank you notes. That first weekend in January, my dad was flying back with some friends from the Carolinas, and would stop to pick up another friend on the way. He had flown his own plane since we lived in Bismark - which by the way has more folks with a pilot's license than the average city.

It was snowy, and I was home alone with my brother. The King and I was on TV, the older version with Yule Brennar and I was trying to watch it. Rosie and her husband were flying back with my dad, and their daughter called me. The first time she called, I remember thinking it wasn't unusual for them to be a bit behind schedule, especially because of the slushy snow coming down.

Then she called a second time, sounding more frantic about the lateness of the hour. I kept trying to focus on the movie, but there was a nagging sense that something was wrong.

The sleet was thick as the plane tried to approach Metropolitan airport in Indy. They were having trouble seeing, and trouble transmitting to the air tower. The wings were icing over. When they had called for weather conditions, there had been no mention of icing, or they would have diverted elsewhere. Now they opened the side windows, reaching his hand around to the windshield, my dad scraped the ice away trying to get visual confirmation to match his gauges. They made the first attempt at a landing, couldn't safely get to the runway. So pulling up, they made another pass. A wide circle around the airport, and during the descent, they hit wires, sending them bouncing back up in the air. The plane had a mind of it's own now, and came back down hard, skidding through the snow through a bay window and into the living room of unsuspecting folks who were watching the football game on the other side of the wall.

When my mom came home, I remember talking to her about what time dad was supposed to be home. She called Rosie's daughter and they talked briefly about times and places. We knew that they had left the Carolinas, and that they were headed home. Mom called the airport.

Dad had blood running down his face from a gash in his scalp. He tried to move Rosie's husband from the front seat, only to find that he was already dead. Then went to the task of getting people out of the back seat. Ken and Rosie were hurt - Ken was having trouble feeling his legs. Dad and the people from the house got them out of the plane and laid them safely down to await the ambulance.

I don't know that I ever remember dressing so quickly - or getting into the car so quickly. There had been a crash and we knew that one person was dead, but not who. Mom was a true loner at that moment, and said, she didn't want to scare us, that we should pray for the best, but that usually it was the pilot who died in airplane crashes because of the steering wheel. The snow was deep and we drove quickly over to St. Vincent Hospital on the north side of town - which even now is about a 30 minute ride.

When we walked in, it was pandemonium. They were not sure who was dead, and then we passed my dad on a gurney. His face looked like someone had left chocolate cake all over it - and he was saying something about his left leg. I'll never forget how white and straight his teeth looked when he saw us and smiled. Later we would learn that he shattered the ankle of his left leg and that he had ruptured his aorta - normally something that is lethal, but the adrenaline and cold weather had saved him.

We found Rosie, who had fractures in her spine, broken arm and a broken leg as well as Ken who had a fractured spine. ( I may have gotten these details a bit skewed, as it was 30 years ago and I was 9). I remember that Ken was told he would never walk - but a year later he was the proud father of a baby boy and he walked into the delivery room with only a cane.

The next months are a whilrwind in my memory, sneaking us into the ICU, lying about my age so I could see my dad. The surgeries where they rebroke and reset his leg, and then in March, when I made my Confirmation, he was home, with a hospital bed in the living room. Dad was thin then, and pale, but he is a fighter. Always has been.

I looked at those pictures last night - remembering the lessons learned by observation. How you can love someone and have to care for their every need, how you can be strong even when you are in pain.

Today, my dad restarts chemo - to battle this opponent who has come for a rematch. The Lord tells us that to those whom much has been given, much will be expected. We have been given thirty years worth of second chances and memories and laughter. People just don't live through plane crashes like that, and as a family, we all know that. I think we are expected to be thankful, be happy and be at peace with however this next round of chemo turns out, and rather than being angry that we may not get more time, focus on how wonderful it is that we got and extra thirty years so far.