Lord, give me wisdom, I pray, advancing the throttle and heaving the Cessna 206 into the cool mountain air. I was making a difficult decision: conserve fuel and head home in the deteriorating weather, or press on to complete a critical medical emergency flight that would probably leave me stranded in the mountains with a fuel supply at a minimum.

We call them “Code 1” patients. They have extremely high priority and, if possible, must be attended to that day. Almost 90% of our flying is medically related and these flights are not uncommon.

On the ground near the patient’s home, a nurse fills me in on Palesa, 25. “She is in need of an urgent blood transfusion. Her hemoglobin has dropped critically low.” Palesa makes a quiet groan as she lifts herself into the middle passenger seat; her abnormally light color and silent determination both catch my attention. We are on our way in minutes, not wasting any precious time.

The hospital lies just 12 miles away and Palesa is scarcely in my care more than 15 minutes. Once on the ground again, she quietly slips out of the airplane and into the waiting ambulance and is gone, on her way to get the urgent care that she needs.

I turn and walk back to my fuel-starved 206, now with only 20 minutes above reserves––not near enough to return home. For the moment, I’m stranded. Powering up the aircraft radios, I hear a colleague has just broken through the weather and is on his way to meet me with some extra fuel. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll be home tonight after all.

MAF pilot Justin Honaker was closing the rear cargo door before embarking on his first flight of the day to the village of Methaleneng in Lesotho, Africa, when a vaguely familiar face grinned back at him. The man rattled off something in Sesotho and pointed to his 10-year-old son next to him. Justin realized what the man was asking: “Do you remember us?” And then, Justin recognized them…

Five days earlier, I had been to Methaleneng. The father and son, Motlatsi, were on board. Motlatsi was lethargic, incoherent, and barely conscious, after being hit in the head with a stone. He and his father made the 2.5-hour trek to the clinic. I remember buckling Motlatsi’s nearly limp body into the back seat of the Cessna 206 that day, his spastic movements hampering my efforts. I remember his eyes darting aimlessly about the cabin and wondering if he wouldn’t be better off on a stretcher (that I didn’t have with me). I remember feeling that there was little hope for the boy.

On this day, however, Justin hardly recognized Motlatsi, who was now bright-eyed and grinning, happy and coherent. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing!” Justin said. Now, the only remaining hurdle to getting the father and son home was the gusting wind wreaking havoc on the sky over Lesotho. Methaleneng had been unlandable the day before.

From 9,500 feet, Justin pondered the miracle in the back seat of his airplane and prayed that one day Motlatsi would know his Savior as well. As Justin circled overhead at Methaleneng, he saw a limp windsock and marveled again at God’s protective hand over Motlatsi’s life.

It was a hard decision departing on today’s flight. In the front of my mind I always ask the question: “Can I complete this flight safely?” Abiding by country and MAF regulations is essential. Passenger comfort and confidence is also of my top priority. My own energy level, emotional state, and skill are always in the mix too.
There is continuously a risk vs. benefit to consider on any flight. Today, with 300 lbs. of critical medical supplies for a completely depleted stock at a mountain clinic, the benefit is clear. Their resupply will come by air or not at all. However, the marginal weather risk is harder to decipher, especially in a country with almost non-existent aviation weather reporting.

In order to decipher today’s weather better, we sent out a “sniffer” – a pilot who goes out on the first flight of the day to “sniff” the weather and report back if another plane should launch or not. Earlier I received the sniffer’s report and opted to launch, despite my colleague’s hesitance to say yes.

Through the haze I finally spot the last ridge above the airstrip through a slightly dissolving haze. It feels like it’s been hours getting this far, yet only 45 minutes has lapsed. Once on the ground one of the clinicians quizzes me, “Isn’t the weather too bad for flying?”

“It’s very marginal, but flyable,” I assure her, and then proceed to unload the cargo. It only takes only a few minutes to unload, and the clinic is now at least minimally stocked.

Powering up my vacant airplane and launching back into the haze, with a renewed sense of confidence in my successful return, a smile creeps onto my face. Today’s mission is complete.

On December 1^st, World AIDS day Lesotho, we were reminded that we are caught up in a fight of our own. We had a packed schedule of public health workers traveling to several remote clinics for the day and returning in the afternoon. Our challenge was moving so many people out and back in the same day.

Our three Cessna 206’s are a far cry from the more than 300 used in 1941, but I know we are going to make a difference. Instead of bullets, we are delivering test equipment so people know their status. Instead of bombs, people who care. Instead of torpedo’s dropped from airplanes, we leave hope in our wake.

So, as you reflect on Pearl Harbor Day, be strong and courageous. And fight the good fight today and every day.