A Thousand Flights

By H. A. Bownds

Hayden chronicles his life from the best of times to the worst of times, reflecting on how some people who are brought into our lives may only be there for a season but can leave an indelible footprint. he illustrates the recognizable moments when he could sense God's presence and other times when he felt like christ was far off in the distance. A thousand flights underscores the notion that Sometimes cycling through past memories allows us to realize that god HAS always been with us, will never leave us and He paves the way for new memories of faith, friendship and a future. He chose us - it's up to us whether or not we want to choose Him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hayden bownds
• Release date: Oct 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737817208

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

I USED TO read a lot when I was a kid. Nothing of substance, but I always loved stories. My desire for reading gradually lost steam as I got older like so many interests do over time. It was many years later that I realized writing is what I wanted to pursue with my life. I was in Istanbul, Turkey one year when the idea and title first came to me to write this book but was tossed away minutes after it emanated. I never thought about it again until I remembered that someone thanked me for something that I had written once. I was taken aback for a moment and had to think. What have I done for someone to be thankful for? How have I impacted someone in whatever way they must have been feeling in order to thank me? I never sought out to write or do anything that would merit any thanks. That’s when I started to realize I had never written anything thanking anybody. I should be thanking everyone who has affected my life even in the smallest of ways. We take something from everyone that we meet even if we realize it at the time or not. Most importantly, the one person we should be thanking is Jesus Christ. The one who, despite all of our mistakes, our bad decisions, and in our best and worst of times, He forgave us in order for us to have a life of joy and prosperity. We don’t have to accept it, but He’s always there and waiting for us in His time. These chapters are just like seasons in our lives, some are better than others. I live my life like an open book and with every screenplay that I write, a little bit of me gets inked onto the page so I thought what better way then to put the rest of my life on display for the world in full transparency.

We have various flights in our lives of experiences, memories, mistakes, decisions and chances we did or didn’t take. There are so many take offs and landings during our time here and though we all have a destination, we may be too focused on where we’ll end up to really stop and appreciate the journey we endured getting there. It’s amazing when we're able to see the things we thought we were finished with were only stored for a later time in our lives. This is my truth, my confession, my apology and most importantly - my acknowledgment of every one of you I’ve encountered, shared a word with and made memories together. It is because of you and my faith that I am who I am today.

A THOUSAND MEMORIES

THAT’S WHERE IT all begins, right? With a memory? As I climb the way up through my mid-thirties, I don’t have the most reliable memory. Never did, really. Sorry if this comes across as scattered. It's just how my brain works. I can think back to some of my fondest times - family gatherings, special moments, an achievement maybe, and yet, I can recall some of the most awful times, too. Loneliness, failure - even death. I grew up in the great live music capital of the world, Austin, Texas with my younger brother, Holden, my older sister, Shayne, and my mom. I was the middle child, go figure. I had a wonderful family, for the most part, as I’m sure many of us would like to allude to. I mean, nothing was perfect, but then again, what really is? I was probably around eight years old when my parents decided to divorce. We were alternating between Austin and a small town Northeast called Bertram. You’ve never heard of it. Not many people have. And for good reason, too. It wasn’t bad. I actually kind of liked it, from what I can remember. As I said, I don’t have the best memory. We had a moderately large house, all things considered. It was quaint and spacious and we were normal participants in the community. At the time I would play sports, seasonally. Baseball, mainly. I liked it, I think, but I wasn’t good at it. Choke up, my coaches would encourage me when it was my turn to bat. I’d look at them, reposition my hands, and steady myself. They’d shake their heads and quietly shout, you don’t have to swing every time. But I did. I never missed a chance to swing, yet I always missed the ball. I was just too excited not to swing. I wanted to hit one. Just one, I thought. But the opportunity never happened. Sometimes I’d walk the base, due to the incompetent pitches, but I didn’t earn the base. Things like that always affected me. I wanted to achieve the things I got, not be merited for something I didn’t personally accomplish. My interest in baseball quickly dissolved after future situations like that.

Bertram was a town tucked between the growing cities that surrounded it. It was a very small slice of the hill country, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. You could probably walk straight through it in fifteen minutes. It had its charm, though. Every year there was an Oatmeal Festival. The whole community came together to parade through the antiquated downtown on floats, march in the school band, old men drove tiny go-karts, and shop owners touted their goods while a little red Cessna plane flew overhead dumping oatmeal on the gleeful crowds below. The whole nine yards. That’s imaginably the most stimulating the town ever got unless there was a tornado.

I remember one time when the weather was calm and humid then severely flipped as the day turned to night. Sirens screamed and thunder clapped as lightning illuminated the world in a magenta and azure filter. The wind rushed and whirled, blowing debris. Trees were falling over, fences were ripped from their grounding - hail plummeted with all its fierce, damaging nature. As we gathered mattresses and pillows, barricading our five-member family, six including our small sheltie dog, Lady, into our cramped bathroom - funnel clouds swarmed overhead.

That was the night I learned how to pray. I grew up in the church, though I didn't understand what it meant to have a relationship with God. We were regular attendees, actively involved in congregational gatherings and at my young age, I wasn’t as pronounced of a believer as I grew to become. The tornado never touched down and our property wasn’t affected much, but I didn’t thank God for His protection after everything settled. I was thankful, it just never crossed my mind. It’s interesting how sometimes we only think of God in our times of trouble and once they’ve come to pass, we neglect to show our gratitude. Maybe I’m alone on that. Probably not.

There is a time I do remember thanking God, though. Growing up, I was a severe asthmatic and was allergic to everything. When I say everything, that’s not me trying to be emphatic. I truly mean just about everything. I couldn’t have bread, fish, beef, corn, gluten - anything. Rice, chicken, and vegetables were predominantly what my meals consisted of. In those days, gluten intolerance wasn’t as commonly known or as trendy as it is today. I frequented a hospital in Fredericksburg, which was a considerable distance from Bertram. My primary physician was a short and slightly corpulent gentleman named Dr. Brown. He was bespectacled and inexplicably quite brown-complected, coincidentally. I would receive three shots a week in my butt, had to take food drops, and constantly use inhalers and breathing nebulizers.

If ever I did eat anything else, typically I’d break out in an allergic reaction, sending me straight into a full-blown asthma attack. I almost died on numerous occasions. When my mom was giving birth to me, somehow I got tangled around the umbilical cord in her stomach and was suffocating, which was causing my mom to bleed internally. They had to perform a C-Section. I came out, we both lived, and that may be the reason why I was the only one in the family with that health condition, I thought. Hospitals kind of felt like a second home as commonly as I’d visit, non-volitional, of course. It was Spring and I was in the front yard of our house in Bertram. The grass was tall and pollen was prevalent. I’m not sure what it was I was doing, but I scratched my arm and felt a welt. I looked down and noticed my whole body was covered in hives. I guess I didn’t realize it until I noticed the hives, but it was very difficult to breathe. Panic gripped my body as I hurried toward the house. It only took one look from my mother to know exactly what the problem was as I swayed through the door, clutching my throat. She dropped everything, grabbed me, and we ran out to the car along with my brother and sister. My dad must have been working during that particular day.

My mom raced down the highway, flashers flickering and weaving in-between cars. I was in the backseat gasping for air. My face was turning a dark shade of blue and my eyes were weighted down, rolling toward the back of my head. It’s terrifying when you’re unable to breathe, but I don’t remember being afraid then. My mom began to pray, fierce and direct. Holden and Shayne joined in, in agreement. I was barely conscious as we arrived at the hospital so the drive seemed short. Once we were inside, my mom frantically screamed for help from some of the nurses. They hastened over and sat me down in a wheelchair, then rushed away to get a doctor. In that time, my lungs began to reopen, breathing became much easier, and after a few minutes had passed I was totally fine. My mother’s prayers were heard and answered. I was in lively spirits and even jokingly said, I’m healed. I wasn’t healed of asthma for good, just from that specific attack. I did thank God for answering our prayers and sparing me that day. We didn’t stick around for the doctor to show up, we just left, rejoicing and relieved.

It was very challenging finding foods that I could eat along with the rest of the family. When they’d order pizza, I could only eat the cheese and vegetables. They were constantly getting donuts and other delicious wheaty pastries and all I could do was sit back and watch them enjoy as I ate my unsavory rice cakes. There was one day a week that I could splurge and eat whatever I wanted. My wheat day, was what we called it. Kind of amusing how they never wanted the things I couldn’t eat on or close to that particular day of the week. It wasn’t intentional, obviously, just the way it happened.

Many a time, I’d snag a few cookies or donuts or whatever it was they'd be relishing when I was unable to indulge and save them for my wheat day. They weren’t fresh after four or five days, but when you’re only able to eat certain things periodically, they’re the most delicious victuals your mouth has ever tasted. Yeah, growing up with that condition was tough, but I got through it and surprisingly, outgrew most of my food allergies. Still and all I get killed with pollen and other seasonal allergies any time the wind blows. It’s been years since I’ve had an asthma attack albeit, I do keep an inhaler just for safety and use it now and then.

Once my parents split my father kept the house in Bertram and my mom moved my brother, sister, and me back in with my grandparents in Austin. We loved it there. Papaw was what we called my grandpa. He maintained a large garden that yielded every kind of fresh produce and there were also pecan and pear trees in the yard. He was a World War II veteran and made many additions to the house in between his alcoholic outbursts and fits of rage. Understandably, now that I think back on it. The things he went through during the war - then living with PTSD. He was an exceptional man. Both of my grandparents were.

Mamaw was what we called my grandmother. She was a kind, dainty woman with short, black hair and big hard-rimmed glasses. The sweetest, most caring woman with the thickest of skin. She had to, knowing what all she had to put up with. She and Papaw adopted my mom and my uncle when they were young kids. We were still attending school in Bertram as we lived in Austin and the drives every day were so long and tiresome. My mom would have my sister read the bible aloud on the way to school. Can’t say that I found much enjoyment in it, but my mom was a faithful believer in Jesus. I’m not sure what she was doing for work during that time, but she quickly got back into the dating scene, which struck some chords here and there. One time she started seeing this guy named Aaron. He was a really cool guy on a surface level. I never knew him much personally as I was too young, but he’d take us to play putt-putt golf, to the movies, and I’m sure a myriad of other things. He even gave us his Nintendo-64 when my mom refused to buy us one. She never allowed us to play video games and abhorred the idea of us having a television in our rooms. This was very irksome at the time, but I’m especially thankful for it now that I’m older.

One night we were at Mamaw and Papaw’s house, presumably playing Aaron’s ‘64 when he came over to see my mom. Papaw met him outside. Saying he was intoxicated may be an understatement. As a respectable man, Aaron approached my grandfather for an introduction and handshake and was verbally accosted to the point of fleeing the property - for his life.

My mom was unaware of what occurred and later got a call from him. He was at a tavern nearby taking the edge off with a number of beers. Naturally, my mom was riled and went to confront Papaw, but that’s when she saw him outside drinking, blasting old country tunes, and brandishing a silver three-fifty-seven pistol. She scooped us kids up and we met Aaron at the tavern. She exclaimed her sincerest apologies, probably followed by a kiss. He was cool about it, oddly enough. We were in Texas, after all. They determined it was best to just call it a day so he left and my mom’s friend Cindy came and picked us up. She was the most spontaneous and convivial of all the friends my mom had. And she had many. After Cindy had an above-ground pool installed in her backyard, her house was the spot we'd normally be at. On top of that, she nicknamed me Pickle Man when I was a young tyke because I loved pickles. Still do. It’s a moniker that no longer sticks - don’t even think about it.

Cindy drove us back to my grandparent's house and parked on a street over, close enough to see our house some yards away. We were stunned to witness various police cars spread around our property and there, on his knees with his hands laced behind his head, Papaw faced armed officers with guns drawn. It was a horrific scene. My mom exploded into tears while Cindy consoled her. I think we were too young to fully comprehend the gravity of the quandary. He was hauled off to jail for the night and released the next day. They never discovered his pistol and I have no idea what happened after that.

My mom found herself in a handful of other romantic affairs all through the years. None ever stuck, though. A lot of cool cats, then again a lot of goofballs, too. My mother was a precarious woman. Very fun and loving, devout in her faith, but deeply flawed as we all are. I think never knowing her biological mother had much to do with it. My mom had prominent custody of us kids and my dad had since sold our childhood home. He rented a tiny shack on an elderly couple’s property back in Bertram. We’d stay with him every other weekend. I’m no psychologist, but I think the divorce took a sweeping toll on him, emotionally.

The property was replete with timbered acres, trails, and spacious fields. We’d bring our bikes over and explore, having wholesome fun outdoors, uncommon to today’s youth. He also had cable and would let us watch the movies my mom wouldn’t allow, possibly because he spent most days lying in bed in his darkened bungalow. He worked long, exhausting hours driving big trucks for a dairy delivery company. He still does, believe it or not. Long hours on the road can be taxing. Driving a big rig, I can only imagine. So, it was understandable. Countless times when we would visit he’d take us to Walmart and buy us more or less whatever we wanted. I suppose it was his way of showing his love for us at least in a way he knew how.

Not to pass the blame, but I suspect because of that I grew to have a misperception of God. After accepting things I did nothing to earn, I perpetuated a skewed idea that when I prayed for things, they should be granted to me. It wasn’t his fault, though. A crumbling marriage, starting over with three kids, reinventing your life - I think we can all relate to some of that. We all try to reinvent ourselves in one way or another at some point in our lives.

My dad had a few relationships over the years. Nothing too meaningful, I imagine. He did end up shacking with a woman in an even more country town called Lexington. That’s where all of his family was from - his brothers and their families and his parents - my grandparents. They lived on hundreds of acres of land with horses and cows. They were genuine cowboys. My grandpa would raise horses and ride them in rodeos. We went occasionally, but us kids were more city folk, as they described us. We would always go over to their house every year for Christmas and Thanksgiving and though we loved them dearly, we rarely saw them any other time and the holidays later became fewer and fewer.

The woman my dad moved in with was - genial, I guess. She had four kids and ran a daycare from home. As I mentioned, we visited our father every other weekend, so getting attached to someone new and familiarizing yourself with them wasn’t all that easy or intentional. That relationship lasted the longest but ended the worst in a vicious, emotional departure. Luckily my parents always remained friends. Sometimes they were great friends, other times they were screaming down each other's throats. That was mainly when feelings were flaring, I suggest. As I noted, they remained friends and my dad subsequently moved back in with us a few times. I often speculated they’d eventually get back together. I think the spark burned out long ago, but the notion of friendship and being there together for us kids was what kept them in good standing. That and the fact that it was cheaper to be together rather than not be.

I’ll never forget the time I saw my first dead body. Not too long ago my friend’s sister passed away. We had lost touch over the years. He’s a remarkably talented musician. He’s the type of person who could play any instrument right after picking it up. He steadily had bands and side solo acts. We actually started our first band together. Another Day Alone - I’m laughing, too. Boy, those were the salad days. As time carried on as it normally does, our friendship had waned and we became two distant strangers. After I heard about his loss, I couldn’t help but sit in reverie. I wanted to call him but sent a text message instead, expressing my condolences and prayers for him and his family. He responded with a thankful message in return. It’s kind of perplexing what the thought of ceasing to exist does to your spirit. People die every day in staggering numbers when you look at statistics, but when it’s so close to home, a part of you feels like it’s been smudged out. You feel like you do all you can just to remember every word spoken, every encounter - every memory.

I didn’t know her. I met her a few times and she was nice. I feel for my friend and it serves as a reminder of what the value of good people in our lives mean, even when you lose touch over the years. I’ve lost many people in my life. Some highly dear to my heart and some that maybe I didn’t know well or care for all that much. Death does have its impacts. The first dead body that I saw came after the summer of fourth grade. One day a lump grew over Papaw’s right eye. We didn’t know what it was, but soon we were informed that he had cancer. We were all shocked. He took it fairly well, as I recall. He kind of usually kept to himself, reading the paper with his coffee, isolated in his office. I don’t remember a whole lot leading up to his death, but I do remember the night I found out. He had been transferred to a hospice center not far from our house. His health had dramatically declined and he was sent there to recover, so I believed. I was only nine years old and death was something I was unfamiliar with.

My brother and I were sharing a room with my mom at the time. That night I couldn’t sleep. I was restless and was hearing strange noises. The closet was directly behind my bed and I heard what sounded like hangers falling to the floor, then pacing near my bed. I felt a chill and snugged the sheets tightly under my chin. I was afraid and praying didn’t even cross my mind. I rolled over to try and forget about it, but right then Mamaw burst through the door - throwing on the light. They can’t find a pulse on Daddy, she shouted. My mom sprung up. So did my brother and me. It was a silent drive to the hospice building.

Nothing is straightforward, especially when you’re a kid. It was too late by the time we got there. My mom and Mamaw walked in as the nurses were undressing the room. Papaw’s lifeless body was a gaunt, yellowish statue still in the bed. The odor of death lingered in the room and wafted out into the hallway, where my brother, sister, and I stood. My eyes were moored to his previously sprightly body. Once here, now gone - the man who did anything in his ability to make us kids happy. Yeah, he could be mean. Undoubtedly mean and drunk. He did unpleasant things, but he wasn’t a bad guy.

He’d play Black Jack with us and let us win the pot as he showed us his old black and white photos from the war and pop out his false teeth. As a total surprise, one day he had hundreds of pounds of sand delivered to the house and he made us a sandbox with swings from a high-hanging tree limb. This man was a childhood saint, from my viewpoint. I could feel those memories slipping away as fast I could relive them. I didn’t cry, though. Was something wrong with me, I wondered silently as the time I encountered an angel was brought to my mind. It was in the backyard of our home in Bertram. Holden and I were habitually making forts and getting into some kind of trouble, but the trouble I was about to be in wasn’t going to be with my parents - it was with danger.

My dad was always promising to build us a treehouse. He never got around to it, though I'm sure he wanted to. Sometimes he would go months without mowing the lawn and when he finally did, he’d mow trails through the large stalks of grass for my brother and me to frolic through. It was entertaining, but I was more fond of climbing trees at that age. One day, I was alone in the backyard and decided to climb one of our trees. This singular tree was towering and wide and had giant, jagged rocks encircling it. I managed to climb my way up to the first available limb and was reaching for a rope that held a yellow child’s swing below. I stretched my little arm out as far as it would extend and just as I thought I grasped the rope, I started to fall. I clenched my eyes shut, but through my darkened eyelids the most brilliant light shone through. I opened my eyes to find myself holding on to the rope several feet above the rocks. Not that unbelievable you might say - but how I was holding the rope was the odd part. I had a tight fist around the rope in the way one would demonstrate showing off their biceps. How was I holding on like that and falling at such an awkward position? I gently repelled my way down and ran in to tell my mom.

A miracle, she thought. I’m not so sure I was sold on the notion at the time. I didn’t thank God at this moment either. Why was that? She ran over to our neighbor’s house, and told Casey all about it. Casey and my mom were close friends. She had two kids around our age, Kelly, and Sam, and was also going through a divorce. They had a trampoline where we’d practice backflips and all sorts of acrobatics. Because we lived so close to each other, we spent a lot of time together and were great friends for the longest time and would share our God stories, growing apart as childhood friends normally do. Maybe only in my case…

Could that have been an angel in our room brooding near me as I writhed for sleep that night? Or maybe it was the spirit of Papaw? It did occur at the exact same time as his death. Interestingly enough, I saw Papaw again many years later. I woke up one night and he staggered out of my closet and looked at me for a few minutes, then turned and walked back inside. I shook off the ghostly account and rolled over to go back to sleep. That wasn’t the first time I encountered a spiritual presence, though. My mom and