The Sweetest Gift

Pure blessed quiet.

Thank You, Father, for sending me this wonderful neighbor. She appreciated the stillness, but of course tonight had to be the night she couldn’t sleep. She hated insomnia. Too much on her mind—the practical worries of life like mortgage payments and school loan payments and remembering she needed to give notice at the hospital where she did shift work.

She told herself it was better to worry about all of her responsibilities than what was truly troubling her.

She wouldn’t think about the accident. Or about the dreams that had troubled her more frequently after the medevac crash last month.

The microwave binged, and Kirby retrieved the steaming cup. She dug a bag of her favorite sweet chamomile tea from the third drawer next to the stove. The paper around the bag crinkled in the quiet, and down the hall came the muffled sound of the little dog yipping in her sleep. Maybe Jessie was chasing birds in the backyard in her little doggy dreams.

The phone rang, loud and harsh in the peaceful kitchen. The tea bag tumbled from her fingers. Startled, she sprinted across the short distance to the other end of the kitchen. The caller ID told her that it was business.

Being on call was a nurse’s life.

She snatched up the receiver before the phone could ring a third time.

Stars were everywhere, sending out enough glow to light them up like a beacon, but the rendezvous was a go. Sam never backed down from a mission. It was a challenge, that was all. He was one of the best pilots he knew, and tonight he had to be at his best. He flew so low the whack of treetops against their belly made his navigator nervous.

Flying nap of the earth kept him sharp. On his toes. The intel had been good. Good enough, at least, to keep him several clicks south of trouble. He liked to stay away from enemy soldiers who might happen to be armed with missile launchers. Launched missiles weren’t so good for his helicopter.

It looked like easy flying tonight, and his navigator said so. Mark. They’d gone through boot camp together. Buddies to the end.

“You’re as crazy as ever, Gardner, but tonight looks like a cakewalk. Wait—”

Then the sky lit up. Fire and a deafening crack of metal exploding—

Sam jerked awake, disoriented, the dream still rolling in his mind, frame after frame of fire and death and fighting for calm.

He wasn’t falling out of the sky in hostile territory. He was safe in his new bed in his new room. Even the sheets were new. The memories faded, but the experience of it didn’t. No, that fateful night and its far-reaching effects stayed with him. Still.

He swiped his hand over his face and encountered damp. He had sweat bullets and his hair was drenched. It was the move—any change brought up the dreams—but it was more than that. Much more.

A dog snore broke the silence, followed by the scrape, scrape of dog paws on the floor. Leo was dreaming again, digging and running. Sam knew how fine it was to have good dreams, so he was careful not to wake his dog as he felt his way out of the room and into the kitchen.

He still went over the what ifs in his mind. There had been no warning, nothing. Mechanical failures happened. It was a fact. He believed as a Christian that all things happened for a reason.

It seemed odd that he’d learned that night and for too many nights following how cruel people could be. Even his own wife.

Old wounds. Deep scars. He fought to clear his mind of the nightmare. He checked the refrigerator—nothing in it because he’d drunk the last root beer after grabbing dinner at the local drive-in.

Empty-handed, he kicked open the back door and sat on the top porch step, head in his hands, his heart in pieces. The memory had sunk deep claws into him. He was still hooked, still haunted, unable to keep his mind in the present.

He could hear the beat of the blades as he fought the controls. He’d taken a hit and the radio was suddenly full of chatter, a mission gone wrong, injured SEALs at the LZ, under fire and in need. He was their only ticket to safety and he was going down….

Why was this haunting him tonight?

He let the temperate night air cool the sweat on his brow, and he knew why—the reason lived right next door.

She’d made him think of Carla, of his mistakes, of wrongs that could never be righted. Failings that could only be forgiven and handed over to the Lord.

He saw goodness in Kirby.

When he didn’t believe in real goodness. Not anymore.

The phone rang, a sharp blast of sound that saved him. He hauled his tired carcass up off the step and snared the receiver on the third ring. It was someone in need. A sick child needing a lifesaving flight to the hospital in Seattle, the nearest medical facility with the emergency care she required.

He was the pilot who’d volunteered to fly anyone who needed it.

He slammed down the phone, renewed, energized. With a purpose. Thanks, Father.

A mission was exactly what he needed. To focus his thoughts and give him a sense of purpose. Sam grabbed his keys, his shoes and his jeans and was out the door in ten seconds flat.

The local private airport was dark and still in the early-morning hours as Kirby pulled off the two-lane road and into the paved parking lot. Lord, You know I hate to fly. Give me strength. Please.

There was no time to waste. She hauled her medical bag out of the trunk. Who was going to pilot the flight? Chet always piloted the flights she volunteered for, but he’d up and sold the airfield two weeks ago. Retired to Lake Havasu, Arizona, where there were no cold winters to trouble his worsening arthritis.

She hadn’t heard who’d replaced him as a volunteer. Would it be the new owner of the airport? There were a few chopper pilots around. Maybe it would be Ed, who flew with the county search and rescue.

Her sneakers crunched on the gravel. The airfield was still this time of night. Everything was dark. The modest tower, the hangars lined in tiny rows off to the side, the mown fields that smelled of sweet bunchgrass and wildflowers. A wild rabbit scampered out of her way as she followed the path toward a helicopter set out in the middle of the tarmac.

Not a chopper she recognized. Newer than many she’d flown in. Whoever was flying tonight, he couldn’t be too bad of a man. To donate a flight and all that went with it spoke of deep pockets and a generous spirit.

Wait. Was that him? She caught a brief movement. A man’s tall form, all but shadow, circled out from behind the chopper, a clipboard in hand. Doing his preflight check. Kirby knew she couldn’t be heard over the beat of the blades and the whine of the engines, so she tried to catch his attention with a wave.

He lifted his clipboard in recognition, a dark stranger of a man who remained faceless and formless in the shadows.

Since he’d seen her, she ducked, climbed aboard and settled in. She’d done this probably a hundred times. Chet’s medical equipment was up against the bulkhead. He’d probably donated it, knowing him, and she made sure the defibrillator and monitors were in working order.

She was belting into the jump seat in back when the pilot’s words, muffled by the noise of the helicopter, told her he was ready to go. Before Kirby could wonder if the pilot was going to introduce himself or she should go up front, another man’s shadow appeared.

“Hey, Kirby.” Jeremiah Clark, anesthesiologist, slammed the hatch behind him. “Looks like we’ve got a great new pilot. I have a lot of confidence in him. Have you met him?”

“No, I haven’t had the chance to.”

“He has a lot of combat flying experience. I always feel better with a veteran at the controls.” Once a marine, the doc dropped his gear and eased onto the seat next to her. “I’m glad Chet left us with a good replacement. Sam seems like a great guy. Once we’re airborne, you oughta go up and—”

“Sam?”

“Yep. Sam Gardner. He’s Ruth Gardner’s nephew. Ruth and my mom are in the gardening club together….”

Sam Gardner is the new pilot? The blood rushed from her head, leaving her dazed. She felt the faint movements and sounds of him up front, out of sight behind the panel of metal.

Sam, a pilot? She tried to picture it. She could. Sam’s confidence, the competence.

But he’s a plumber. Isn’t that what he’d said?

“He doesn’t own the airfield, too, does he?”

Jeremiah nodded. “Of course he does. Didn’t you hear?”