G-d Is My Pilot

She was having a bad Monday morning. I saw it all over her face as I made my way through the crush of people exiting the train station.

“Today is just not my day,” I heard her say to no one in particular, and she went on to complain about the several mishaps that had already managed to ruin her day before 8 a.m. It sounded like quite a maddening morning, and I felt sorry for her.

“Give your day a chance, there’s still quite a lot of it ahead!” I heard myself say. I’m not sure if I was that annoying stranger who offers unsolicited advice, or perhaps I was the bearer of a message she needed to hear. I laughed at myself for my uncharacteristic gall, and she smiled as we parted ways.

I don’t usually join into strangers’ conversations on my way to work. But something tugged at me, the memory of a significant experience just a few weeks before . . .

It was the busiest time of the week at Camp Gan Israel of Edmonton, the last few minutes of camp on a Friday. True to the nature of my job as an assistant director, I was being pulled in five directions all at once. As I rushed by the supply room, a staff member called out to me, “Your phone rang a couple times, Shaina. Someone is trying to reach you.” It couldn’t have been my Canadian phone; I had that phone hanging from my neck, the signature assistant director look.

An alarm went off in my head. I immediately went to check who might have been calling my American phone. Two missed calls from my brother and sister, and a voicemail message waiting for me . . . a message I didn’t want to listen to. I stood there frozen in time. A time when I knew that my grandfather was still alive, living his last few moments in this world. If I’d listen to the message, the world would forever change.

But I couldn’t stand there forever. I closed my eyes as I listened to the gentle voice of my brother, bearing the sensitive news of my grandfather’s passing. My dear grandfather, whose kind voice I could still hear in my mind.

The shock hit me all at once. There was going to be a funeral and a shivah. My family would all gather together to support my grandmother . . . my grandmother! Again, a rush of emotions as I thought about my grandparents and the many years they'd shared together.

I dialed my brother’s number to hear the news straight from him. He told me the funeral would be early Sunday morning and that my mother was hoping we’d all make it into town. With the help of a kind travel agent and some other G‑d-sent messengers, an hour later I had a ticket for Flight AC 1174 on motzoei Shabbat (the evening after Shabbat).

I had a tight connection to catch in Toronto that worried me; I certainly couldn’t afford to miss it and have to catch the next outgoing flight to New York—I was just making it in time to the funeral as it was. As soon as I got on the plane, I told a stewardess that I was on my way to a funeral, and she assured me that I would be able to move up to business class for the last 20 minutes of the flight, which would ensure that I would be among the first passengers to disembark.

I whispered Tefilat Haderech, the prayer for travelers, as the plane took off, and said my Shema prayers as I prepared to go to sleep. My ability to sleep practically anywhere served me well; I slept soundly for almost the entire flight and awakened to hear the stewardess inviting me to business class for landing. Gratefully, I settled into my front-row seat right next to hers. I could hear the stewardess’ jolly conversations behind the curtain as I dozed off into a light slumber.

Through the fog of sleep, I thought I heard the pilot announcing that we would be preparing for an emergency landing. I opened my eyes to see my kind stewardess nervously holding the mic, announcing that we were to put every belonging in the overhead compartment, practice the bracing position, and remove any sharp objects, so as not to harm the slides in case we would indeed be making an emergency exit. “Passengers are instructed to leave their belongings behind them . . . ”

Leave my belongings behind? I needed my passport with me to catch my connecting flight! I called over my kind stewardess and asked her when we’d be able to get our belongings back.

“If we make an emergency landing, my dear, your life is more important than your belongings,” she said as calmly as she could, but even I could detect that, behind her pasted smile, she was very nervous. This was clearly an emergency. It was no longer about making my connecting flight; it was about making it off the plane safely.

I whispered the few Psalms I knew by heart over and over again. I had a lot of questions, and I wasn’t too shy to use my seat up front to my advantage. The patient stewardess explained to me, “I think we will be just fine. Our pilot is well-trained for such situations. We will be OK. I trust him.” She was saying all the lines she was supposed to, only I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more—me or herself.

I listened closely to the announcements: “We’ve got a fairly significant flight-control problem right now.” “We’ve lost most of our flaps, and we’ve lost our autopilot.”

I closed my eyes and thought about our Pilot, the One who steers the direction of every moment of life, the One who chooses who will live and who will die. G‑d never loses controls over His “aircraft” and is the master behind every occurrence of every day. Surely, I can trust Him. I whispered some more Psalms.

I looked around me to see the stewardess answering the calls and transmitting the messages to the rest of the crew. Things appeared to be calming down, but until we would touch the ground, no one knew if we’d need to make an emergency exit. Then the airplane hit the ground abruptly, and the passengers broke out into a loud applause. We had made a safe landing!

Despite the delay, I still had time to make it to my next flight. I thanked my kind stewardess with fewer words then I would have liked as I rushed out into the airport. I knew I really had to thank my Pilot, the One who sends me safe landings every day, the One who sent me a strong message today on how to appreciate every moment of life.

Every miracle, every day.