Prone to Wander

He was in trouble and he knew it.

Flying over the Arctic, in the dead of night, wingtip-to-wingtip with six other jets, he felt tense, thirsty and exhausted. My husband shook his head at his foolishness. He knew being on-call to fly a jet to the other side of the world required some preparation, but there had been so many false starts that he had grown complacent. Surely this Sunday afternoon he would take off with the others, then come back and sleep in his own bed, as he had every night for the past two weeks. After all, he wasn’t one of the six primary pilots, just a lowly backup, in case something went wrong in-flight. They really didn’t need him. But the squadron leadership followed protocol: six jets were needed, so seven took off.

This had been a hectic week. He really hadn’t been getting the sleep he needed. Trying to adjust his circadian rhythms for this night flight had him going to bed late—no problem. The trouble came in the morning. In our busy household, with babies and school children, it was tough to sleep late into the morning. So, he usually got up and got going. He could catch up on his sleep tomorrow night, right?

Before the afternoon take-off, he made enough time to fit in a church service. He enjoyed the music especially, and singing the hymns. A pleasant break in his morning. Once at work, he realized he had hadn’t gotten his water bottles or food. Not great, but no big deal. He wouldn’t need them. He would be coming home shortly after take-off.

But this time was different. Just prior to the Go/No Go point, it happened: a wingman developed a generator problem and needed to turn around. Suddenly it was clear: my husband was now part of the six-ship-and-tanker group that would continue flying for nine more hours, across the continent and the Atlantic, to a tiny island west of Portugal.

The sun set and the long night bore down on him. Below him, northern Canada was dark and silent. He began to feel the discomfort of dehydration, nausea, and a pounding headache. Ruefully he noted he didn’t even have a bag in case of airsickness. He knew he was in a dangerous situation. All too easily he could lose focus, or worse, fall asleep. Carelessness of only a few feet could lead him to collide with the tanker or one of the other jets.

So he began to pray. For help, for comfort, for the ability to stay alert. Thankful for so many blessings in the past, pleading for blessings now.

In the darkness, a gentle melody stirred within him. A familiar hymn from his childhood, more familiar because he had sung it earlier that day in church. (Had it really been only a few hours ago?) One phrase seemed particularly fitting: “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, Prone to leave the God I love.” He was definitely wandering. And so full of mistakes. Help me, Lord, he prayed over and over.

The song persisted. Singing and listening kept him thinking, functioning. Then, over the black of a Canadian night, northern lights began to dance. A visual melody, a lifeline for a nomadic child. He recalled the final phrase of the persistent refrain: “Here’s my heart, O take and seal it: Seal it for thy courts above.”

After multiple arial refuelings in and out of the clouds, the sky slowly lightened, bringing energy and hope. Navigational tasks and radio conversations were welcome distractions from his aching body. He was still tired, but with the sunrise, he knew now that he could complete his assignment safely.

Days later, home and snug, my husband told me the story of the life-saving hymn and northern lights, sent from a loving Father. “I want to look up that hymn,” he told me. “but I can’t seem to recall the title. Do you recall a hymn with the words, “prone to wander”? I looked at him, puzzled. “I think it’s ‘Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing’ (written by John Wyeth and Robert Robinson). That song isn’t in our current hymnbook. It’s in the old hymnal, from your childhood.” He furrowed his brow. “I don’t think so,” he disagreed. “After all, I sang it at church before going on base.” “Maybe the choir sang it,” I suggested, “or maybe the words were printed in the program?” My husband was pensive. “No,” he replied. “No choir and no special program. But I do remember singing it.” I smiled. A tender mercy and a tender mystery from an attentive God.

Kristin Fry loves to celebrate Christmas with her family and friends. Rejoice! The Lord is King! She is especially grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints