Light in the Star.1 - The Four Lessons

A flight in the iconic P-51 yielded four key lessons on following God on his terms. 

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Hey everyone, I'm Mark Cole, and this is The Journey. Now let me put something out on the table on the front end. I am a Christian, and the journey is about learning how to live life responsibly and effectively, not some kind of superficial churchiness, but real time, real world, real life, and on God's terms. And I am absolutely convinced that it has to do with understanding exactly what Jesus meant when he said to two men one day, follow me, and I will show you how to influence people. Get that, and the rest rolls right out of it. And I think I get it. So I want to tell you a story about how I got it because I want you to get it. It's called Light in the Star, and it is the single most profoundly impacting experience of my adult life. The lessons I've drawn from that one experience are core to what I have come to believe is so about people, about purpose, about meaning, about effectiveness, and about influence. So here's the story. Light in the star. I remember the first time I heard the phrase. It was about three in the morning on a cold, clear winter night in the early eighties, westbound on Highway 287, somewhere near Clarendon, Texas. Come on, Mark, put your light in the star. Dale's CB distorted voice cut through the beautiful quiet in our car. Four couples were driving from our home in north central Texas to Colorado for some winter skiing. I was driving one car, and my friend Dale was ahead in the other. At that time in our lives, Dale was an Air Force fighter pilot, and fast was just a natural way for him to do things. Apparently our car was not keeping Air Force time, lagged behind a little bit. And Dale's voice cut the air again. Foley, get the light in the star. Come on up. What are you guys doing back there? I had no idea what he was talking about. What light? What star? I actually scanned the sky for some indication of a special star. Finally I figured it must be some kind of pilot talk. But otherwise, I was clueless about lights in stars. What was clear is that Dale was ready for me to catch up with him, and so a minute later we were there, and Dale was happy. A little while later we stopped for coffee and gas. Dale, so what's the deal with the light in the star thing? I asked him. He said, It's the way we do formation flying. The wingman, I said, wait, wait, wait, wait. What's what's a what's a wingman? He said, That's the number two plane in a two ship formation. He follows the lead ship. Um ship being airplane, right? Right. So anyway, here's how it works. The wingman places his ship close to the lead, maintains position based on a point of reference. That point is the star in the Air Force emblem on the side of the lead plane, and the light is a wingman's wing light. So he positions his plane so that by his line of sight, the wing light is centered in the star on the side of the leader. He keeps that position. He keeps the light in the star, maintains close formation. Got it? I think so. Great. So stay where I can see you on the road. Ignoring the command. I asked, so is that how the Thunderbirds and the Blue Angels do their close formation flying? Pretty much. That and a whole lot of practice and experience, Dale said. So what's it like to go that fast that close? I asked. More than a little awed that my friend could do such things. And he said, Well, it's it's scary at first, but you get used to it. And before long it's second nature. And with that, refreshed, regassed, re-coffied, and properly educated in the basics of formation flying by one of the United States Air Force's finest. We were back on the dark dark North Texas Highway headed to High Colorado Adventure. And I kept our car large in Dale's rearview mirror the rest of the way. Now I would not hear the phrase light in the star for another 35 years. But when I did, I knew exactly what it meant. When I was a boy in the 1950s, my parents gave me a book entitled World War II Flying Aces. I read it so many times that it was just worn out. And those men became my heroes, and the machines they flew were my passion. One of those machines captured all my imagination. It was called Mustang. The P-51 Mustang was the most capable propeller driven aircraft of its era. Sleek lines, massive power, distinctive sound, unmatched maneuverability, and it is, in my humble opinion, the finest aircraft ever designed. It is a legend. And I flew that Mustang. Oh, that's not quite right. I soared in the Mustang in my dreams and in my imagination, and I still do, but the course of life assigned to me did not include the need to become a pilot. Though I did learn how to fly out of incurable curiosity about how to do it. But the awesome and beautiful Mustang remained in the safest of places in my dreams. It was Christmas morning of my sixtieth year, and I was opening a card for my wife, and upon it was a picture of a P fifty one Mustang. I remember being a little confused about that, kind of a strange idea for a Christmas card I was thinking, and then I read the back of the card. My family had given me a flight in a Mustang. As it began to soak in, I was speechless. A flight in the airplane of my dreams. Let's just say it was a moment I will remember for the rest of my life. So what I tell you next is the fulfillment of a fifty year dream and the most impactful God lesson of my adult life. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon when we arrived at a small private airfield outside of Kissimmee, Florida. Few small white puffs of cloud, royal blue sky, light breeze, perfect flying weather. The grounds were immaculate, lush green grass, recently trimmed, not a speck of litter, spacious hangar upstairs office, and above the door was a sign on which was a very precisely painted picture of a P 51 Mustang. We were in the right place. I was introduced to my flight instructor. John was a friendly, straightforward former Air Force F fifteen driver who was about to conduct what would become one of the most amazing experiences of my life and the most astounding God lesson that I will ever learn. As John talked me through the flight profile, it gradually dawned on me that what I thought would be a sit and fly around was in fact to be an introductory aerobatic flight lesson with me at the controls. I was blown away. I sat in the briefing room listening to John explain the tactical approaches to the maneuvers, straight and level flight, Stalin recovery, inside loop, Embleman, Aileron Larole, and I'm thinking this guy is telling me that I'm going to fly the airplane on believable. The aircraft was an immaculate silver 1945 D model. They'd adapted it for training with two seats front and back. We went through an extensive orientation in the hangar with a full walk around pre-flight inspection of the plane, and then I found myself strapped into the back of that narrow cockpit harnessed to the parachute, tightly tied to the aircraft, and I began to understand things I'd read about putting on the airplane. The world really does reduce to that small cockpit, and you begin to feel like you're part of the machine. So I had the back seat with full controls. John had the front. He went meticulously through the checklist, always a good idea in a 65-year-old airplane. Occasionally, John would ask my opinion on the readiness of some essential operating part with which I was not fully acquainted, so I said they looked good. I figured that was the quickest way to the sky. Apparently John agreed. And after a few minutes, I heard a whine and saw that massive four-bladed propeller begin to rotate. A supercharged 12-cylinder Merlin engine has a distinctive sound when heard from the ground. But in the cockpit, it's not the sound you notice, it's that 2,000 horsepower part spinning on the nose. It produces so much torque that you have to apply counter rudder just to go taxi in a straight line. As we neared the end of the taxiway, John came over the radio with the first of four impacting lessons that day. Mark he said, There's something real important I want you to know. This is my airplane, not yours. But I want you to fly it. So do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, and you will have the most marvelous experience of your life. You'll fly this Mustang. Yes, sir. It was the best response I could think of. I figured Roger was just too cliche and the old trucker ten four would just be embarrassingly wrong. So yes, sir, it was. John lined up on the center of the runway, advanced the throttles, and whipped up all two thousand of the horses, and in a rush of seconds and gray concrete, we were airborne. At about five hundred feet, John wiggled the stick and said The aircraft is yours. I had been waiting for those words for fifty years. I was flying a P fifty one Mustang, hands on stick, feet on rudder. I have the aircraft, I replied, and the grin was from ear to ear. Then John delivered the second of the four impacting lessons. If you feel resistance on the stick or the rudder, don't fight it. It's me keeping you out of trouble. Now that sounded like a really good idea. Yes, sir. We gained altitude, and for the next hour John talked me through maneuvers with that airplane that are hard to adequately describe. I watched the world roll around the canopy in a three hundred sixty degree aileron roll. It spun around the wingtip doing an inside loop. Absolutely incredible. I can tell you that dancing with the clouds in a 3G turn upside down in a P fifty one Mustang is just about the coolest thing in the cool book. As I pulled level out of the last roll, John said, Let's try one more thing. I want to teach you how to follow another airplane. Yes, sir, I replied, full of confidence from the flips and the loops. How hard can following be? I was thinking. He gave me the heading and the altitude and flew us to the siding of the other ship, and in accordance with my understanding of following, I took up a tailchase position about a quarter mile back a couple of hundred feet above the other airplane. I was following. I had him in sight, I was going the same direction, and it seemed prudent to me to maintain plenty of room between us. Then came lesson number three. John said that's not how we follow. Pull level on his left. I completed the move still about a quarter mile out. And he said, Do you see the star on the side of his fuselage? I looked over at the other Mustang, several hundred yards off our right wing. The star was the Air Force emblem, the white star with a stripe and a dark blue outline on the side of the fuselage just behind the wing. Yes, sir. Look out your right wing. Do you see the wing light on the tip? Yes, sir. John said, I want you to put your light in his star and keep it there. And the memory of my conversation with Dale on that cold night in the Texas Panthandle thirty five years earlier came rushing back. Come on, Foley, put your light in the star. John, I I get it, but we'll have to be pretty close to do that. Exactly the point, he said. And so started a pretty shaky attempt to comply with my instructor. All of a sudden following didn't seem all that simple. It's easy to fly solo flips and loops. All you have to do is pull back on the stick, the airplane does the rest. But the light in the star thing required discipline and skill that I did not yet have. And it required that I close to within feet of another airplane and submit myself to the discretion of that pilot, neither of which I was particularly keen on doing. As I clumsily and slowly closed the distance between the two planes, John delivered lesson number four. Mark, I know this feels unnatural, but the more you do it, the more natural it becomes. Now, put your light in his star and keep it there. Match him move for move. It's the only job you have. And that's when it hit me. That's what Jesus meant when he said to those two men, follow me, and I'll show you how. I reflected on that moment in John's four lessons. Remember what he said? First lesson, this is my airplane, not yours, but I want you to fly it. So do exactly what I say when I say it, and you will have an amazing experience. You'll fly this Mustang. And lesson number two, if you feel resistance on the controls, don't fight it. It's me keeping you out of trouble. And then there was number three, put your light in his star and keep it there. It's the only job you have. And then the fourth lesson, I know this feels unnatural, but the more you do it, the more natural it becomes. Following Jesus, same thing. Hey, there's a lot more to this story, so pull up the next segment. I'll tell you the rest. Don't forget to check the website, effectivesolutions.today. Five o'clock every morning. New devotionals posted, making a part of your journey. Hey, thanks for checking in. See you next time.