Born to Fly

By J.K. Weller

Chris is a certified flight instructor living in Northwest Oregon, and finding his way in the world has been exciting and gratifying for him. He is well on his way to acquiring the needed flying hours in order to become a candidate for a pilot position with an airline.

But when he is blindsided with the truth behind a terrible

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.K. Weller
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950685332

J.K. Weller

J.K. Weller has been involved in a variety of occupations spanning the years of his lengthy work life. From the days when he lived aboard a US Navy submarine to when he taught at a Christian University in Oregon, his experiences gave him a special view of life and of following God on a daily basis. He and his wife lived in Brazil for a few years as part of their service as missionaries helping to share about God's love for all people. Employed as a part-time flight instructor for several years provided exciting experiences he enjoys sharing. Flying Solo incorporates some of the adventurous happenings while he was instructing others to fly, but the story is mainly pure fiction. He and his wife now reside in Mesa, Arizona.

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Born to Fly, Book Two in the Course Corrections Series

Copyright © 2020 by J.K. Weller

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether

auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher

and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews.

Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE,

NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984,

2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Taken from New Morning Mercies: A Daily Gospel Devotional by Paul David Tripp,

© 2014, September 12 entry. Used by permission of Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers, Wheaton, IL 60187, www.crossway.org

Cover and Interior Layout Design by Inspire Books

www.inspire-books.com

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950685-32-5

E-book ISBN: 978-1-950685-33-2

Library of Congress: XXXXXXXXXX

Printed in the United States

Contents

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4

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Epilogue

On Wings Of Peace

Questions To Ponder

Acknowledgements

About The Author

1

Saturday October 2, 2010

Willamette, Oregon

It was a beautiful Saturday morning to be soaring in the cerulean blue sky, and Chris had a flight lesson out at a small dirt airstrip cut out of a farmer’s grain field. Eighteen-year-old Tom had hired Chris to provide lessons for him in a small, two-seater Piper Cub that was kept at this private airstrip. Anxious to gain time and flying experience, Chris readily accepted the opportunity to instruct Tom.

They sat in the little plane at the end of the dirt runway, ready for the takeoff roll. It would be Tom’s first attempt at doing the takeoff on his own. Chris assured him he’d be on the controls, but Tom would be the one actually controlling the pintsize yellow airplane.

Tom advanced the throttle and the airplane began its forward movement toward gaining flight in the beautiful, blue sky. As it gained speed, the plane began moving toward the right side of the narrow dirt runway. Chris leaned forward and in a loud voice said, Back off some on the right rudder. Tom must have more than reduced pressure on the rudder pedal; he must have pushed the left pedal too much. Lurching to the left as they became airborne, the wheels of the airplane began dragging in the long slender stalks of grain growing alongside the airstrip. Instinctively Chris pulled back on the stick, attempting to lift the plane above the tall growth. The left wing of the airplane caught in the golden heads of grain, flipping over the little, yellow airplane. They landed in that fashion alongside the dirt runway—with Chris and Tom hanging by their seatbelts, their heads pointed toward the ground.

2

Eight Months Earlier

C ’mon in, Jack hollered, hearing a knock on his office door. Tw enty-six-year-old Chris Parker stood 5’ 9", weighed 170 pounds, had brown hair and hazel eyes. He had been employed by Jack Harold, the owner of Willamette Aviation, for over three years. He and Jack enjoyed a working relationship that was beyond the normal kind of boss and employee connection. They had struggled together through some tough situations and in the process had come to a mutual understanding that was well beyond what is typically attained in a work setting.

Seeing that it was Chris, Jack rose and went to an armchair in front of his desk while motioning Chris to be seated in the other one. How’d it go, Chris? I’m betting you passed the CFI checkride. Am I right?

The CFI—Certified Flight Instructor—license was something Chris had coveted and been working toward for a long time. To him it felt like it had taken forever. Becoming a flight instructor provided entrance into a part of the world of aviation that would allow him to gain the hours and experience he would need in order to be hired by an airline as a pilot. It was a big step forward in his overall plan for his life. It would eventually mean flying large, super-sophisticated airplanes. Very few in the whole world ever got the opportunity to even see the inside of the cockpit of one of those behemoths, much less fly one of them. Of course the large salary bump was also enticing to Chris.

Chris scooted the chair at an angle so he could see Jack’s expression better, noting how distinguished Jack’s appearance was becoming with the hint of gray showing on the sides of his hair. Yeah, you did a great job of preparing me for this day, Jack. The inspector even said I performed one of the best CFI check rides he’s ever administered. So yep, I’m now your newest instructor.

Congratulations, Jack said, leaning forward to shake Chris’s hand. How are you feeling about it? Ready to start instructing students?

I sure am. Although I expect I’ll be tapping on your door a bit for the first few months, asking for advice on how to handle particular situations.

I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Jack said. After all, it takes time and experience to sort out how to deal with the multitude of circumstances that can come up, especially while in the cockpit with a student. So sure, feel free to ask me or one of the other more experienced instructors about anything you’re not sure about. But let’s talk about what your schedule will look like now. I haven’t yet found anyone who can take over your current responsibilities as the ground school scheduler. I hope to find a good person soon—got leads on a couple of people that might work out in that role.

Looking away from Jack, Chris said, "Yeah, I sorta figured you’d be saying something like that. I’m really anxious to be functioning as a fulltime flight instructor, but as long as I get to also do some instructing right away, I guess it’ll be okay. I just don’t want to let all of that knowledge the Federal Aviation Administration required me to learn to get rusty before I get a chance to use it."

Chris, I understand that you are probably disappointed to not be instructing fulltime immediately, but I need you to keep the ground school humming along until I can get the right person. And no, we won’t let that knowledge you gained get rusty. In fact, I know that Barry will be going on vacation in a couple of weeks and he has some student pilots in various stages of their flight training who will not want to be put on hold while he’s gone. Let’s go see him when we’re done here and talk about which students he has that would be a good fit for you to fill-in for as their instructor. And of course the other instructors will be taking vacations also, but we can talk about those later.

Great! Chris said, shifting his weight in the chair.

And with your ground school responsibilities, you’ve developed a lot of relationships with other private pilot students who’d be happy to have you as their flight instructor.

I’ve been thinking about that and yeah, there are four or five who’re in ground school now that I could work well with as their instructor.

That’ll be a big part of what you’ll be doing going forward, Chris—greeting people as they come in the door and finding out what they desire. That’s how we gain most of our new students. Oh sure, we advertise, but that just provides a stimulus to get them thinking about the fun and thrill of becoming a pilot. Once they walk through the door, we’ve got to provide the hook that sells them on ‘You can do this.’ So just be available to talk with people, helping them gain confidence that they too can become a pilot.

Jack’s phone-intercom squawked; he went to the box and pushed the button. Yes? he said, resting his left hand on his desk.

There’s a young woman here who wants to talk about learning to fly, the receptionist said.

Chris will be right there, Jack replied. Turning to Chris he said, It’s starting. You’re on. Go sell her on becoming the next great pilot in the world.

3

C hris, could you do something for me? asked Ms. Freiwald, the elderly owner of the house where he rented a room.

He’d been living there for three years and sometimes had thoughts about looking for an apartment of his own. But the room worked fine for him, so why bother with the hassle of renting something that’d just cost him quite a bit more? Plus, he’d have to keep an apartment clean by himself. Ms. Freiwald enjoyed keeping her house neat, which meant that he only needed to clean up his own room from time to time. She took care of the rest of the house. It was a good arrangement. When he got hired in the future by an airline, that would be soon enough to move into housing of his own.

Sure, Ms. Freiwald. What do you have in mind? Chris responded, leaning against the kitchen counter. I have a couple hours before I’m scheduled to be at the airport.

There are pictures and documents and such stored in the attic. My sister and I put them up there many years ago. Of course, she’s now in heaven. I started thinking last night about needing to go through some of those documents. For instance, I need to update my will and it’s stored up there.

Chris put his empty coffee cup in the sink and took a seat at the kitchen table where she was sitting. Well sure, I can do that. Do you want me to bring the containers down here so you can go through them?

No. It’s dusty up there and I don’t want to bring all of that grime down here in the house. I can tell you what the box looks like and if you’d just search until you find the right one, that’d be really good. I’d do it myself, but I can’t manage climbing up that pulldown ladder anymore. She chuckled. Let alone pull down that dang thing.

Okay. I’ll go up there and see if I can find what you’re looking for.

Good. It’s a small metal box. It’s sort of like the metal boxes they use in bank vaults. It’s about the size of a small cereal box laid on its side, with a hinged lid on it. She used her hands to demonstrate the size of the box. Chris noticed how aged her hands looked, sort of like weathered leather. "It’s inside a cardboard container that has Home Depot printed on it. I know that for sure because my sister insisted that we buy them there. Shaking her head, she continued, I wanted to just get some used boxes from the grocery store, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with that. So we got them at Home Depot."

I’ll change into some other clothes and go look right now, he said, getting up.

Oh good. I really do appreciate this, Chris. She stood and hugged him, as though his doing this was of extreme importance to her.

After changing into work clothes, he grabbed a flashlight, pulled down the attic ladder in the hallway and climbed into the dark and dingy space. Shining the flashlight around he finally found a string attached to a fixture with a naked light bulb. Pulling the string, sure enough the light bulb lit and thankfully provided enough light for him to be able to see what he was faced with. It also highlighted spider webs lacing back and forth between the rafters, which caused him to shudder as he thought about a recent news report that black widow spiders had been found inside houses in Northwest Oregon. He had to keep brushing the webs off of his face, hoping that he wasn’t getting spiders on him in the process.

The roofline was low, keeping him in a stooped-over position in the cramped space. Assessing the situation, he saw that things were stacked two and three high and about half of them had Home Depot printed on them. This could take a while, he thought. Kneeling, he grabbed a box, brushed off the dust and opened it. Feeling around inside, he couldn’t find anything but old clothing or some kind of fabric. Refolding the lid, he shoved it to the side and grabbed the next one. It was much heavier and he discovered that it contained old encyclopedia volumes. He pulled out enough of them to make sure the metal box wasn’t in there also. Refilling it and shoving it aside, he grabbed the next one.

His knees began to ache, so he grabbed the first box again and pulled out some of the fabric, wadding it up to make a cushion for his knees.

Chris, are you all right up there? he heard Ms. Freiwald ask from the bottom of the ladder.

I’m doing fine. It’s just going to take some time to locate your metal box. But I’ll eventually find it.

Can I get you some water or something? he heard her ask.

No thanks. If I don’t find it soon, I’ll come down and take a quick break.

Okay. I’m going to go sit down then, she said.

A few minutes later Chris hit paydirt. It was one of the heaviest boxes he had checked. Opening it he saw that it contained several photo albums. Pulling out the albums so he could check to see if the metal box was there, one of the albums hit on a rafter and came open as it fell. He couldn’t help but look at some of the photos. One picture was of two early-teenage-looking girls with names written under each of them. He turned on the flashlight so he could see clearer. The names were Patricia Jones and Maria Jones. He was certain that his landlady was Patricia. When he had first met her, he had asked if he could call her by her first name and she had declined, saying it would be better for him to call her by her formal name. But he was certain that the girl in the picture was her.

Thumbing forward in the album, he saw lots more pictures with Patricia and Maria on them. There was one of Patricia with a young man, and they were holding hands. A few pages of photos further on there was a picture of them at a beach. He thought he recognized Haystack Rock in the background just beyond the sandy beach.

Dragging the container of encyclopedias back over, he got off his knees and sat down on it. Then he pulled another album out of the open box. More pictures of Patricia, but obviously several years later than the other photos—her hair was much darker. No dates were written on the pictures, but he could tell by her changed appearance that there had been a significant time lapse between the two albums. Flipping through the pages, he finally found some more photographs with writing under them. Shining the flashlight on the photos, he read Paul and Patricia Freiwald. She was married at one time?

He quickly grabbed another album, an older, tattered looking one that had crude lettering written on the dark blue cover. It said, Early Photos of the Jones Family. Being fully hooked now, he eagerly opened the album. The first page of photos contained a family photo with Jones Family—1954 written under it. There were two adults—he guessed the mother and father—and three kids; two young girls who were maybe six and eight years old, and one boy he guessed to be about eleven or twelve. The boy had bib overalls on, something Chris had only seen in really old photos and in one or two older movies. He examined the photo to see if it identified any of the kids, but he couldn’t see any writing on it. He turned the page, and there was another photo of just the three kids; the boy had his hand behind the head of one of the girls, signaling a V sign. Chris grinned remembering that he had once done the same thing when he and his brother Brad had been posing for a photo.

Intrigued, he turned the page. Faded and tattered, there was a snapshot attached to the paper page. It was of the younger of the two girls in the photo he’d just looked at. Based on the pictures in the first album, he guessed it was Ms. Freiwald, or Patricia, as she was identified in the first album he’d opened. In the current photo, she looked to be sixteen or seventeen, and she wasn’t alone; there was a young guy with her. No names were included. Chris quickly turned the page looking for more pictures that would show him who the guy was, but was disappointed to find there weren’t any more photos in the album.

Feeling around in the box again, he didn’t find any more photo albums, but he touched something that felt like metal. Lifting it out, it appeared to indeed be the container Ms. Freiwald was wanting to examine. Just to be certain, he opened the lid and pulled out the top envelope—Marriage Certificate was written on it. Chris couldn’t resist opening the envelope to see what was actually in it. The sheet of paper he extracted was yellowed, but still displayed an ornately printed ink border. Shining the flashlight on it, he first saw Marriage License printed at the top with State of Oregon below that. The first typing he saw said Paul Carroll Freiwald followed by the county typed in below and then Patricia Mae Jones. If I’m following this correctly, Ms. Freiwald was once Mrs. Freiwald, married to a Paul Freiwald. Why is she hiding this? Or am I assuming too much by thinking she’s hiding something?

Chris, are you alright? You’ve been up there for over a half hour, he heard her say from the bottom of the ladder.

Yes. I’m doing fine. It’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it would. I’ll be down soon—just need to look a little more.

Okay. Be careful up there. I’ll make you a sandwich to take to work with you since I’ve taken up your time this morning.

Thank you, Ms. Freiwald. That’ll be great!

He put back the marriage license and took out the next envelope. Birth certificate: Christopher Freiwald was written on the outside. Opening it, his fingers fumbled. A smaller but more ornate document came out with Notification of Birth Registration printed at the top. Below that was typed Christopher Allen Freiwald followed by Paul Carroll Freiwald and Patricia Mae Freiwald. It was dated June 8, 1970. So, if I’m correct that Ms. Freiwald is indeed Patricia Jones who became Patricia Freiwald, then she has or had a son. Interesting. A son who would be what, forty years old now if he’s still alive?

He had to take the metal box down to Ms. Freiwald. But he couldn’t resist the urge to see what else was in it. Grabbing the next envelope, he saw written on it Legal Records of Christopher’s DUI/Death Trial. His hands trembled as he opened the thick manila envelope.

He pulled out the bulkiest document, which turned out to be a newspaper headline from the State News Courier, the only newspaper published in the city of Willamette, dated October 13, 2000. The headline read Local man sentenced to fifteen years for death involving DUI. Reading below the headline, Chris saw that the accident occurred in Milltown, Chris’s hometown! It happened in October of 1999! His head was swimming as he quickly read on . . . wishing later that he hadn’t kept reading. The article revealed that Christopher Allen Freiwald had been drunk when he slammed into a car full of teenage boys, killing the passenger in the right front seat. He gasped and his eyes welled with tears as he read the name of the eighteen year old victim, Bradley Parker—it was Chris’s older brother who had been killed in a T-bone accident!

His gut wrenched. If he had the details correct, Brad, his brother, had been killed by Ms. Freiwald’s son! When it happened, he and his parents were so devastated that none of them had attended the court proceedings. They didn’t care—it wasn’t going to bring back Brad. What was the value in pursuing anything legal? Why sit in a courtroom and listen to the gory details about losing a son and brother? It hadn’t made sense, so they didn’t bother with attending the court proceedings.

Who cared what the level of alcohol was in the killer’s blood at the time he ran into the passenger side of the car Brad was riding in? Or how good or bad of a person the driver had been before doing this horrible deed? But, oh my, could Chris be right that he had stumbled onto discovering who had killed his brother? And that he was now renting a room from the mother of Brad’s killer? And he’d been renting from her for three years! She wasn’t guilty of anything and very likely didn’t know it was Chris’s brother her son had killed in the accident. But still . . . what was he to do with this information?

Stuffing the documents back into the metal box in the order he thought he had found them, he closed the lid on it and pushed the cardboard box out of the way. He slowly made his way to the top of the pulldown ladder with the metal box in hand. How would he handle turning it over to Ms. Freiwald? Just hand it to her and don’t let on that you know anything, he told himself. There would be time later to deal with these revelations. Get a shower, get dressed, and get outta here!

4

Chris stopped by a local grocery store on his way home after a long day of instructing students who were in the process of learning to fly airplanes. He’d had to stuff his emotions about what he had learned in Ms. Freiwald’s attic earlier that morning. But now, standing in the checkout line with a boxed meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes from the store’s deli counter, the whole awareness came flooding back into his mind. What am I going to do with the information I discovered? What’s the right way to—

Chris? You are Chris aren’t you? he heard from the person standing behind him.

Turning around, Chris exclaimed, "Erica! How are you? It’s so good to see you again. What are you up to now?" They exchanged a brief awkward embrace while holding their meals.

Unless I’m mistaken, I’m up to possibly the same thing as you—buying a takeout meal to eat by myself, she said, smiling.

Chris wasn’t sure he was in the mood for company since he had lots to mull over regarding what he’d discovered in the attic that morning. Realizing he hadn’t yet responded to her, he said, Yep—just another meal from the deli to share . . . with Rusty. He grinned as he saw Erica’s eyes sparkle.

Rusty! How is he? The excitement in her voice was genuine, which made Chris change his mind. Maybe he would like some company after all . . .

They moved forward in the line to where Chris was next. Placing his meal on the moving conveyer he cynically thought that it must be a difficult job to scan the items.

Chris, I’ve got an idea, Erica said. What do you think about us taking our meals to a park, find a table and eat together . . . it’ll give us a chance to catch up.

Sounds good. I’ll wait for you right over there. Chris pointed to where he’d wait for her to complete her purchase.

Erica soon joined him, and they walked together toward the exit. You know where the park is by the university, don’t you? she asked.

Sure do, he said. There’s a neat gazebo in the center of the park. Has three or four tables with benches.

That’s it. Exactly what I was thinking of. I’ll see you there.

Arriving at the park, he looked around for Erica’s car. Not seeing it, he grabbed his meal and headed for the gazebo. Hearing the sound of the gravel crunching under his feet, he reflected on the last time he’d been there. A time much different. Three years earlier, his boss, Jack, had wrongfully accused him of taking flawed actions that resulted in the death of Jack’s young son. It was at this very place under the gazebo that Chris had asked Jack to forgive him, even though he had felt he hadn’t done anything wrong. Lots of memories attached to this place, Chris thought, and so far not a single good one among ‘em. Perhaps meeting here with Erica today will change that . . . I hope so!

Thinking about Erica Daniels brought a smile to his face. They had first met when he and Ms. Freiwald went to a dog rescue facility to look at golden retrievers; Erica had been the person on duty that day. And Chris and Ms. Freiwald had gone home with Rusty, agreeing the dog was hers, and that he had full companion rights with Rusty as long as he lived there. That was another reason Chris wasn’t anxious to move into an apartment of his own; he didn’t want to leave Rusty.

Soon he heard the sound of someone walking up the gravel path. He turned and