Flight to Heaven by Dale Black Page B

personal. I had to see the place where my pilot friends had died and where I had lost so much of my life, so much of my memory. Maybe something would come back. An image. A feeling. A missing piece to the puzzle my life had become.
    We drove to North Hollywood, where Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery was located, just off the flight path of Runway 15. After we parked, I eased into the wheelchair, and my friend wheeled me to the memorial.
    The closer we got, the larger it loomed.
    The larger it loomed, the smaller I felt.
    It was massive, a huge cube of a building topped with a colorful dome. As we approached it, I saw a large bronze plaque that read:
    WELCOME TO THIS SHRINE OF
AMERICAN AVIATION.
THE PLAQUES HEREIN MARK
THE FINAL RESTING PLACE
OF PIONEERS IN FLIGHT.
     
    On each side there were sculpted cherubs and female figures lifting their hands skyward. It felt strangely comforting, this lifing of hands. My prayers to God were for clarity about the crash. They were questions I raised to Him. I came empty-handed. Would I leave the same way? I didn’t expect all my questions to be answered, but I expected to leave with something.
    We looked at the dome. The place of impact was still being repaired. I didn’t say much that day, but I did a lot of thinking. The FAA classified our accident as non-survivable.
    At that moment I asked God, Did I survive only to find out that I caused the accident, the deaths of Chuck and Gene? Will that be the outcome, once the investigation is complete? Do I need to learn to live with the guilt and the shame? How can I live with it? How can I move on? Was it a blessing that I lived, or a curse? Perhaps the investigation will reveal I wasn’t to blame, I wasn’t at all responsible. Perhanps the crash was caused either by mechanical or pilot error.
    As we got closer, I saw another plaque identifying the Italian-American artist who created the sculptures and ornamentation:
    Frederico Augustino Giorgi
PORTAL SCULPTOR
1878-1963
     
    I later learned the sculptor considered this work to be his masterpiece. It was beautiful in one sense. In another sense, it was grotesque—a hulk of a building standing so stoically; an immovable object that had snatched our plane out of the sky and threw it to the ground. An unchanging structure that forever changed three lives. Without apology or the slightest show of remorse.
    We went inside to see plaques of remembrance for the fallen pioneers of aviation. The ashes of fifteen of them were buried there. Sensing I needed time to process my thoughts, my friend left me alone. I looked up to see that the dome was a mosaic of stars—a portal to the heavens. All of my thoughts were drawn there, all my empty-handed prayers.
    The questions that had hounded me before, the ones I thought had been held at bay, came back at me in a vicious assault.
    Why did I live? Why me and not the others? Why, God?
    I sat beneath the dome of stars, wondering with my questions, waiting for His answers.
    Was I spared because God had a special plan for me? Is that true, God? Do You? Did You save me so I could serve You? God, almost all of my friends have left me. I am no longer popular. I’m the guy in the wheelchair who survived “that crash.” I can’t play sports. I can’t remember what was said in class, no matter how hard I try. How am I going to do this, God? How am I going to go through life with this limp body and this lame brain?
    I paused, waiting for something, unsure what it was. Was I waiting for one of the angels on the shrine to come down and explain it all? Was I hoping for heaven to open and spill out the answers like gum balls? Was I waiting for a sign? A word? An audible voice? An inner conviction? I had no idea. Not even a clue.
    But I was there. I showed up. And I was there with my one hand raised to heaven. I was not one to beg, but I was begging. I’ve never known loneliness before, God. Is this a season in my life when You want it to be just You and me? If so,