catch up to my mother cruising at altitude over the Andes Mountains as Scott (who’s as nervous as an untended whisky bottle in a back alley) is whispering, “I really don’t like this plane, Mommy!” like he is just about to pull a 20 dollar bill out of an unsprung mousetrap, and he won’t stop whispering, “I really don’t like this plane, Mommy!” until poor pregnant Mommy makes him a promise that they will get off at the very next stop. They did.
This decision saved our lives. When that plane took off to get to its final destination, it had barely cleared the runway when something went terribly wrong, and it crashed into a huge ball of flame, killing everyone on board except a tiny baby they pulled out of the wreckage. (It was all kind of spooky really.) It was one of the biggest airplane disasters in South American history.2
These narrow scrapes with death were to become pretty regular occurrences in my future.
Oh yeah, this gets even stranger. You see, Scott wasn’t the only one who knew that plane was going to crash.
The following entry is from one my father’s books, The Cost of Commitment. I came across it while I was reacquainting myself with him through his writings by rereading all his books. (I’m still trying to find 20 or so I’m still missing.) I felt a need to get closer in my heart to him. I’d hurt him pretty bad while I was growing up. I miss him so much now—his wisdom and gentle ways. You know, he never once raised his voice or said a single cruel or unkind word to me in all my life. Not once. I just wish he could have been here to see me finally get free.
This was such an interesting find, and is so much like him:
A Paradox and a Premonition
Once I had a premonition that my wife and infant son would be killed in a flying accident. We were to travel separately from the U.S. to Bolivia, South America. She would fly via Brazil and Buenos Aires, then north to Bolivia. I was to visit Mexico, several Central American countries, Venezuela, Colombia, and other countries to strengthen Christian work among students, before joining my family in Bolivia.
The premonition came with sickening certainty just before we parted on the night of a wild snowstorm. I felt I was a cowardly fool as I drove away and saw Lorrie silhouetted in the yellow light of the doorway, surrounded by swirling snowflakes. Why didn’t I go back and tell her I would cancel the flights? Why didn’t I act on this foreboding?
I didn’t believe in premonitions—and had never even heard of “words of knowledge.” Lorrie would probably laugh. Besides I was late, I had to get to the place where I would spend the night before my early morning flight. No conversation was possible with the man who was driving me to my hotel. Fear, shame, guilt, and nausea all boiled inside me.
In bed I tossed in misery. Of course I prayed. By faith I was going to have it licked. Faith? In the presence of so powerful a premonition? My mouth was dry. My limbs shook. God was a million miles away. The hours crawled by, each one a year of fear. Why didn’t I get dressed, hire a car and go back to them?
“What’s the matter? Can’t you trust me?”
I was startled. Was God speaking?
“Yes, I’ll trust you—if you promise to give them back to me.”
Silence.
Then, “And if I don’t promise? If I don’t give them back to you, will you stop trusting me?”
“Oh, God, what are you saying?” My heart had stopped and I couldn’t breathe.
“Can you not entrust them to me in death as well as in life?”
Suddenly a physical warmth flowed through all my body. I think I wept a little. My words came tremblingly and weakly, “Yes, I place them in your hands. I know you will take care of them in life or in death.”
And my trembling subsided. Peace—better by far than martinis on an empty stomach—flowed over and over me. And drowsily I drifted off to sleep.
Hate them? How could I ever hate them? Yet by faith I had said in effect, I will do your will whatever it costs to me or them, and I will trust you.
Their plane crashed. Everyone on board was killed. But my wife had also had a premonition and cut their journey short, getting off the plane the stop before the tragedy occurred.
I am grateful for the way it worked out. But I didn’t know beforehand that things would go as they did. And had it not worked out that way, I would have grieved (God knows how I would have grieved), but I would not have regretted my decision to trust and to go forward … This is what it means to follow Christ fully. This is the effect he wants to have on all our personal relationships—family members, spouses, friends—whatever they may be. The fear that may hold you back is a fear of unbelief. But defy your fear and go forward. For to follow Christ fully means to take steps along the perilous pathway of trust, roped to the safest Guide in the universe.3
Mom told me he got it all mixed up. (Ever hear a married couple tell the same story?)
It is interesting to me how that same event impacted two people so powerfully. You see, there is even more to this tale. Other factors were involved. It was actually impossible for us to have been killed aboard that plane. Here’s why:
Besides becoming a real pain in the ass real quick, I was also the answer to a whole lot of prayer—the prayers of my mother and father. (I guarantee you they got a little more careful about what they asked for after having me.)
I knew nothing of any of this until my father told me when I was in my late twenties. I was in Cook County Jail in Chicago for stealing a six-and-a-half-foot Burmese python named Monty. Needless to say, I was stoned and drunk. To put it very mildly, it was during a terribly dark time in my life, and I’ll leave it at that. There are some things better left alone.
This was the first time I’d heard of what I now call “The Set-Up.” Is that a fair name? You be the judge …
It was in a holding cell in jail for a visit with my father that I first heard of it. That he was even there was in itself a miracle. How he got in to see me was so typical of him. Believe me, he was an amazing man. (Contact visits were strictly prohibited.)
Well, after the pleasantries were done he gently took my arm and said, “Kevin, there is something that I can tell you now.” Then he told me a story that shed some light onto the insanity of my life.
He said that after my brother Scott was born they couldn’t seem to have another child for almost five years. They had prayed often about it, first for a son, then asking why my mother couldn’t conceive. There seemed to be no real answers.
Late one night while they were on leave in Paris, taking some much-needed time away from their work at the leper colony, my father went for a walk in a nearby park. He told me he was troubled about them not being able to conceive. At a bench deep in the park he got to his knees and began to pray.
He asked God for a son—a good son, a child he could raise up in the knowledge of God, one who would love him with all his heart, strong and full of the Holy Spirit, who would serve and honour God—a child who would bring glory to his name.
Right at that point God very powerfully interrupted him with a question.
“To my glory or to your glory? What about
