I wish I could find a picture of her. Especially when dressed in her clown costume to do a program with children. She was a woman born deaf but could communicate on levels that surpassed many ‘normal’ hearers. And I believe she was an active agent in saving my life.
It was a good day for flying.
Three other men and I owned a Piper Pacer single-engine plane. In fact, the day of the purchase deal was the same day my wife was giving birth to our firstborn, a son. This was an example (there are many more) of my lack of sensitivity to qualities a loving husband should possess.
My dear wife was in labor in the adjoining room. I was on a nearby phone (a ‘pay phone’ back in those days), handset cord stretched to its limit as I leaned towards her and asked, “Can I buy a share in this plane? Can I?”
It still shames me now to think of the barren state I was in concerning emotional intelligence. Rather than tell me what I deserved to hear at that moment – “Go fly a kite!” – she still exercised undeserving grace in the midst of her discomfort. A few days later, we went home from the hospital with a beautiful son (even though I have always said newborn babies are basically ‘ugly’). And I got to buy my plane.
It sounds so lofty. Me a pilot. My own plane (with three others). The reality was far less exotic. I had my private pilot’s licence but minimal hours of flying. And all that time was in what’s called a tricycle wheel configuration (a Tri-Pacer). A nose wheel put the tail high up in the air to provide the pilot a clear sight directly through the windscreen. And, when applying the brakes upon landing, the plane would push down onto the nose wheel for a comfortable stop.
Whereas the Piper Pacer was a tail-dragger that basically made the pilot look straight up into the sky until enough momentum in takeoff raised the tail wheel. It also had the habit of wanting its tail wheel to flip around to the front while gaining speed to take off. A completely different challenge than the Tri-Pacer.
Yes, it was a good day for flying. And I wanted to practice some crosswind landings.
That is where, instead of landing into the wind, you land with a wind blowing from the side. Which required particular skills to make sure the plane landed pointing forwards. The runway for a crosswind landing that day was quite a bit shorter than the main runway. And it ran straight into a hangar building with a row of planes on each side as you approach the entrance to the hangar.
My first landing was fine. As I came around the circuit for a second landing, I didn’t notice that the wind had shifted and was now behind me. Which meant the wind was pushing me. It would be more difficult to slow down the plane and would take a longer time stopping once landed. I touched down fine near the beginning of the short runway. But that’s when I was in deep trouble.
I can say I was ‘hurtling’ down the runway because I really was. And I couldn’t slam on the brakes as that would cause the dragging tail of the plane to flip right over the front. Sitting up as high as I could to peer through the windscreen, all I could see was a row of planes flashing by on each side of me and the open jaws of a large hangar in front of me.
Merrilee was on her way home from work.
That afternoon, while I was in the sky, she decided to stop at our house to visit with my wife. Their conversation included reference to me being up in the plane. Merrilee, a woman of faith, had a deep conviction to pray for me, especially for my safety. And so they prayed.
Later, after comparing times, we realized that Merrilee and my wife were praying at the moment I was hurtling down the runway towards my sure death. I would run into one of the Ag-Truck planes loaded with fuel and crop-spraying chemicals that lined each side of the runway. Or I would crash headlong into the planes in the open hangar. Either way, there would be a fiery explosion. As an inexperienced pilot, I had no reservoir of automatic skills to draw from.
I can’t say my life went before me in a flash.
It all happened too fast. But just before reaching the hangar, I had a presence of mind to tap the brakes, see a gap after the last plane on the right, and jam the rudder pedal to swing hard right. The plane did a 90-degree turn to the edge of the runway and onto the furrows of the cultivated field next door. It sank into, then bounced out of, one furrow. It attempted to fly again, came down, hit the next furrow and gently flipped with the tail coming over the front. I was hanging upside down, dazed, strapped in by my harness.
A friend came running out of the hangar. Ben was the local funeral director (I know – a bit of irony there). As a pilot himself, he knew that a spark could ignite the plane’s fuel. So Ben quickly switched off the ignition then released my harness. That was my first (and only) experience in life of dropping down suddenly from an upside-down position.
Her name was Merrilee. She was compelled to pray.
At the same time as I was heading towards oblivion with no sense of what to do. Was it ‘the hand of God’ that saved me? Was it a divine Spirit that came over me? I don’t know. And does it really matter? An awareness for action, a presence of mind, came into me to do what I did. And I am still here. 50 years later.
As a Christian, I give thanks to God. And, as a believer in the power of prayer, I also say, “Thank you, Merrilee and Barb.”
Afterword
Not knowing the religious-spiritual-faith orientations of anyone who may read this piece, I am constrained to add a bit of an Addendum here.
To say “I believe in the power of prayer” is not an exclusive belief.
It isn’t just for Christians or other ‘religious’ people. If you can separate it from any biases you may have regarding organized religion, you may even affirm prayer or prayer-like expressions as a universal, inclusive human quality.
The Alcoholics Anonymous 12-Step Program has transformed many lives and been adapted for success in other contexts of society. A core principle is to assume a human connection to a ‘higher power’ that transcends the physical realm of one’s own life. It can be anyone or anything but has to be an entity that takes you out of yourself. If you want to be rather calloused about it, someone has said that it can even be your dog.
The yoga practitioner doing salutations to greet the rising sun at dawn on a Phuket beach. Buddhist monks spinning prayer wheels and offering continuous chants. Hindu rituals on the banks of the Ganges River. Indigenous affirmations towards Creator and Mother Earth. Tibetan prayer flags for the wind to carry positive energy to enrich all creation.
Even the non-religious person who spontaneously utters “Oh my God!” at the sight of a horrific car crash is expressing a prayer. It is a deeply felt cry from one human spirit to others in need. A prayer, a genuine outburst of positive desire for wellbeing in the midst of a tragic life situation.
All of these activities are variations of a common human impulse towards connecting with someone or something above or beyond and outside of ourselves. Recognizing this basic human unction has potential to be a powerful force for learning and growth. It may even influence a life that might otherwise be driven solely by self-directed ego and rationalism.
A Second Afterword
Again, as with other reflections, this piece is growing while waiting to be published on the website. A few days ago, I came across the following newspaper column. It speaks strongly to my above words regarding the universal human unction towards prayer-like activity.
Ken Noskye (1960–2021), an Indigenous freelance journalist, was known for his honest, heartfelt, and humorous storytelling. A member of Sturgeon Lake Cree Nation in northern Alberta, he attended a residential school, suffered lifelong addictions, and spent time in prison.
Even after passing from this life in 2021, Ken’s many readers motivated newspapers to publish his writings again.
The column at left was included in the March 2026 issue of Saskatoon News. Since the small font may be difficult to read, I have repeated most of it below.
The power of prayer has walked me this far in life.
No matter what I faced, I was taught to pray. Whether a person prays in a sweat lodge, church, mosque, synagogue or a temple doesn’t matter. It’s the prayer that matters. I was also taught not only to pray in hard times, but also to pray to give thanks for what I have.
For many years in my younger life, I questioned why I prayed when I felt my prayers weren’t being answered. It was only when I started to clearly see through what has been thrown at me, did I realize it was the power of my prayers that walked me here. These were prayers that came from the heart.
One of my favourite prayers comes from an American Indian chief named Yellow Lark. It came out in 1887. I said this prayer so many times I memorized it:
“Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind and whose breath gives lite to all the world, hear me. I am small and weak. I need your strength and wisdom. Let me walk in beauty and my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ear sharp to hear your voice. Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people. Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock.
“I seek strength, not to be superior to my brothers and sisters, but to fight my greatest enemy – myself. Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes, so when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit will come to you without shame.”
This prayer isn’t a secret to many First Nations people. I’ve been to many meetings, gatherings and ceremonies where this prayer opens each event. One of the interesting things about First Nations prayers is many are not written down or recorded. Many are memorized and passed from one generation to the next.
It’s been the power of prayer that has walked me this far in life and it will be that prayer my Creator will hear and take me home.
— Ken Noskye