The Eight-Hour Flight with Screaming Little Girls

Charlotte and Hubert Hutchens

          Charlotte Hutchens, our dear neighbor, celebrates her 90th birthday today. She has shared many stories over the years, but this one is possibly my favorite one. I think this story honors the type of friend and neighbor Charlotte has been to our family. Happy 90th Birthday, Charlotte!

            An eight-hour flight with two little girls - aged five and seven screaming at the top of their lungs! What a boarding line to be in! thought Charlotte. As they inched closer, they could hear the two little high-pitched voices shrieking, "I don't want to fly on an airplane!" Charlotte was almost ready to join with them. Who would want to fly a third of a day on this plane?

            Charlotte and Hube, her husband, were flying to visit their daughter and family in Alaska, but the auditory torture caused Charlotte to seriously consider refusing to board that flight. She contemplated choosing to delay their arrival to visit their daughter. She even commented to her husband, “I can’t take that for eight hours!”

            Instantly, other passengers crowded behind her and Hubert making her escape impossible. Instead of acting on her deep-seated desire to bolt, she continued settling in for the lengthy flight. She and her husband were not seated together. To her horror, she was assigned the seat between the “screaming sisters.”

            Upon comprehension of her reality, she breathed a prayer, “Lord, you’ve got to help me get through this.” Immediately, a calm, fear-numbing peace enveloped her entire being.

            She spoke to both saying, “Now we’ve got to stop this.” She reaffirmed in a calming, quiet voice that she enjoyed flying and agreed to hold a hand of each frightened child. Charlotte began to extol the delights of flying. As the plane took off, with their free hand, the two frightened little ones lifted the pillow they each clutched to covered their eyes.

            Charlotte mentally searched the dark recesses of her memory for a soothing lullaby.  She could only recall a song I had given her from the curriculum I had used as a part of the International School Project curriculum in 1995. She began singing the lilting, catchy tune with the words:

The Spirit of God

Is my Helper and Guide

Giving me power

To do what is right.

Spirit of God, Spirit of God,

Spirit of God, Spirit of God.

He gives love,

He gives joy,

He gives peace,

He gives

Patience to both young and old.

Kindness and goodness,

And faithfulness, gentleness,

He even gives self-control.

            The girls quieted and nestled close to Charlotte. Soon the flight attendant spoke in hushed tones to Charlotte, “Ma’am, is there anything I can get you – champagne, anything?”

            Charlotte, knowing she was experiencing a divine empowerment in her own being that had led to an intervention by the Prince of Peace in the lives of these little distraught girls, responded, “No, I am doing fine.”

            The smallest one of the girls seated herself on Charlotte’s lap after takeoff, retaining the pillow over her eyes. Charlotte had ceased singing momentarily. Tiny, bright eyes peeked from the side of the pillow and said, “Keep singing.”

            They wanted their grandma. Charlotte reassured them she was a grandma with grandchildren much like them. To her sorrow, she learned their mother had died. Following her death, the two scared siblings had flown to live with their grandmother whom they apparently adored. Recently, the two had been informed their father had remarried. Now they were flying to meet a woman for the first time – a woman whom they were expected to call “Mother.” No wonder they were screaming – it wasn’t flying they didn’t want to do. They didn’t want to land. Who could blame them?

            Everyone on the flight from the mainland to the 49^th state realized something had transpired on the flight that had seemed doomed to be “torturous” to all except the profoundly deaf. The woman seated next to Hubert commented, “That woman up there must be a saint!”

            I can envision the twinkle in his eye as Hube responded to her complimentary statement, “That’s my wife.” Nobody had to tell him what a remarkable young woman he had taken as a bride many years earlier. (One of my favorite photos of Hube and his "bride" as he still refers to her.)

            As the flight neared its end, the flight attendant returned. Charlotte had sung the simple, but profound song many times during the eight hours while sitting between the two little girls who needed the grandma from Oklahoma more than she could ever imagine.

            Once again, the hushed voice of the flight attendant leaned over to speak with Charlotte. She intimated, “We had 17 children flying unattended on this flight, and every one of them was listening to you.”

            Only eternity will reveal how many people were impacted by Charlotte’s willingness to rely on the Lord instead of running off the plane, like she wanted to do. Even though many years have passed since that flight, Charlotte continues to reflect on one of the greatest divine interventions when the Lord used her as a catalyst in accomplishing His heavenly purpose.

            Jesus spoke these words that transformed that plane flight those years ago as recorded by the Apostle John in John 14:27: Peace I leave with you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. Only a relationship with Jesus, prophetically called the Prince of Peace, endows a person with His Spirit, the Holy Spirit, that enveloped that plane and can bring peace and direction to our daily lives.

To listen to children singing "Spirit of God" click on this link to Douglas Eltzroth's composition: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=61qsqZ5umKE

Double-Checking Gates

            I was trained that a gate had been hung to be closed. If a person went through a gate, that individual should ensure the gate be closed. Gates had a purpose.

Closed Gate with Big Bend Road visible

            As a child, our large chicken flock must be protected by the fence around their chicken yard with one gate that could never be left open. Angie, my sister, as a toddler liked to go with Dad to “slop” the hogs kept for butchering, but recalled being strongly admonished by him to never, ever try to go in with the two hogs. Closed gates in the chain-link fence encircling our yard provided a safe place for Angie who was an adventuresome little one. I never remember having to be taught our cattle herd’s security would be compromised with only one gate left ajar.

A secure set of gates

            About two months ago, I found myself with at least three gates open. As I completed the chores late that afternoon, I kept reminding myself to “close the gates.” Many times, Mother quoted out of context “The thief cometh not, but for to steal…” from John 10:10. This was code for Shut the gates and lock doors if they can be locked.

            As I sought diligently to secure each gate before returning to the house as the winter day ended, I recalled Peter’s words written to the scattered believers because of persecution, economic difficulties, and food insecurity.

Therefore, believers, be all the more diligent to make certain about His calling and choosing you [be sure that your behavior reflects and confirms your relationship with God]; for by doing these things [actively developing these virtues], you will never stumble [in your spiritual growth and will live a life that leads others away from sin];  2 Peter 1:10

I chose purposefully The Amplified Bible because the first time I saw an Amplified New Testament it was the one my grandma, Gladys Rainey Smith, used and treasured. She valued the additional clarification of the original language.

            Peter reminded these believers suffering for their faith that God had called and chose them. As spiritual fruit appeared in the lives of these persecuted followers of Jesus, they understood only His Spirit could produce within them this type of fruit. Peter reminded them the fruit itself served as proof to them of their genuine relationship with their Savior as well as to all who observed their lives during this stressful season of trials.

            Jesus had taught Peter during the three years they were together on earth this truth from John 10:9, “I am the gate; whoever enters through Me will be saved…” Finally, early in His ministry Jesus taught in what has been called the Sermon on the Mount, these sobering truths about the two gates in Matthew 7:13-14:

Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life and there are few who find it. 

             Increasingly, I hear comments about the offensiveness of the name of Jesus. Jesus is the gate to abundant life that begins here on earth and is everlasting. Just as I double-check the gates on the farm, may each of us verify that personal love relationship that the Lord called us into with Him. At the close of each day, may we point to confirming evidence of how we saw Him work in our lives that day. What security to experience the God of the Bible at work in our day-to-day activities and rest in the validation of our relationship with Jesus!

Mother's Day Forty Years Ago

 This manuscript was written and submitted several years ago. It seemed appropriate to publish an edited version as a blog posting this Mother's Day since it occurred on Mother's Day forty years ago (That year Mother's Day fell on May 8).  May we realize what great blessings we have received from God as He has given loving, devoted women to us as mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers.

The Glow at Midnight

            Some days can seem unbearably long—draining all energy and emotion. A day like that occurred for our family in 1983 on Mother’s Day. That day was the culmination of a long, difficult journey that began in early October of the previous year. But it hadn’t always been that way.

Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, my maternal grandma, and Bernyce Smith Gates,
my mother, on Mother's Day, 1973. Notice one of Grandma's rose bushes.
Grandma followed the tradition to wear a white flower to honor her deceased
mother, and Mother wore a red corsage to honor her living mother. I don't recall
if Angie or I took the picture. Let's just say we were learning.

             My sister and I grew up in the same house with our parents and maternal grandparents. We worked together on our farm growing a garden, caring for a herd of cattle, and raising sometimes as many as five hundred laying hens from tiny chicks. Grandma was a hard-worker and frequently drafted us as her unenthusiastic assistants. 

Times of fun and laughter punctuated our work-filled summers. After finishing a farm task such as canning fifty quarts of green beans (after picking and breaking them that same day), Grandpa would pack up the cane poles and tackle box in the bed of one of the farm trucks. Angie and I hopped into the back of the pickup and bumped off to one of the three ponds on our farm. As the sun began to sink below the western horizon, we delighted in roasting wieners on old tree branches that Grandpa had whittled to a point with his pocketknife. Those sticks would pierce and hold the wieners or marshmallows over the fire he and Dad built. My sister and I would have not been happier if we had been taken on a summer-long European holiday than those fishing excursions.

            But in 1982, one October morning after breakfast, my sister and my mother heard a terribly frightening thud as Grandma collapsed onto the floor of the hall after suffering a major stroke.  After several days in the hospital, she was transferred to a rehabilitation facility.  Because rehab services, such as physical therapy, were limited at that time, my mother and sister were told after Grandma’s thirty-day stay, “Just take her home and make her comfortable.”

My sister chose to put her career plans on hold and actively assisted my mother with Grandma’s therapy. She, along with Mother, had a crash course in caring for a patient with paralysis on one side. My father helped in the evenings when he came in from his carpentry job.  Our family  received invaluable daily support from one of our closest neighbors, Charlotte Hutchens, who was a home health nurse.

 In early May of the following year, Grandma’s kidneys began to fail. Her last day was Mother’s Day. My father and I led the music worship at our small rural church as song leader and pianist that morning. Grandma lingered throughout the day even though she was unconscious. Later that evening, Grandma passed away.

 Our family was emotionally spent after over six months of care and daily seeing a woman with enormous talent, capability, intelligence, and fervor debilitated by the stroke. Even though at her death we grieved deeply, we still had a peace because of our belief in life after death. That peace found its basis in the fact that Grandma, at age thirty-one, following her father’s death, had sought forgiveness and made a life-altering commitment to follow Jesus the rest of her life trusting her eternal life to Him.

 Soon her body was moved to the local mortuary from our family home. Those who have had a loved one die after an extended illness can identify with the weariness and fatigue that comes following the passing of the loved one. My sister had been by Grandma’s side as her breathing pattern changed and death approached. She was exhausted physically and emotionally. By midnight, she decided to try to sleep in her bedroom that was adjacent to Grandma’s room where I was staying that night, too.

            Angie put a record on the turntable. As the record slowly spun on the spindle, a beautiful musical rendition of Psalm 23 by Keith Green filled the room. My sister turned out the light so we could try to relax and go to sleep although our hearts were heavy with grief.  Instantly out of the darkness, a vintage portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall to the left above the bed was glowing and illumining that portion of the room. Its brilliance startled my sister who was the first to see it. The antique frame holding an artist’s conception of Christ had originally belonged to my mother (See the photo of it to the left.). To Mother’s knowledge, the painting had never glowed so brightly before that night. Ironically, the painting never glowed so intensely again after the night of Grandma’s death.  Our tears changed from tears of grief to tears of peaceful gratitude, confident that we were not alone. (This link will connect to Keith Green's performance of The 23rd Psalm - - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-XIGanYS2s )

The warm glow emanating from the old sacred representation seemed to be a reminder that He was with us as our Shepherd, lovingly guiding us through this valley of the shadow of death.  He assured us that the glow in our hearts of His presence would never be diminished by the darkness of our situation.  From that night forward, these truths were indelibly written in our minds and on our hearts, knowing Grandma spent her first Mother’s Day in heaven with the Lord she loved where time is no more.

Remembering Virgil Noel Rice

                This Monday will mark the 96th year since Virgil's birth. Last week at the memorial service for Virgil's youngest sister, Dean Rice LittleStar and her husband, Al LittleStar, the comment was made about her last days, speaking of her beloved brother, Virgil. When Billy Graham was asked about recognition of our saved loved ones in heaven, he quoted from Paul's first letter to the Corinthian church in chapter 13, verse 12 - "Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

Virgil from the 1934 Group 
Photograph of the Belford
Grade School

Virgil Noel Rice was born in the Big Bend community, west of Ralston, on May 8, 1927. He arrived as the fifth child born to Daisy Dean Rainey and Ernest Emel Rice and the youngest of the three sons.

                My mother, Bernyce Smith Gates, developed quickly a closeness to Virgil. Less than three years separated Mother and Virgil. No other of her cousins on her mother’s side was closer in age than she and Virgil.

                Mother enjoyed many hours of visiting at his family’s home near the Arkansas River in the Bend.  They both had quiet, gentle natures so understood each other quite well.

                Virgil always excelled at his school studies. He attended Belford Grade School with her. Virgil, as a responsible, mature upperclassman, drove the school bus to transport Big Bend scholars to Burbank High School. My mother had already graduated from high school but was working a temporary job at the bank in Burbank so she rode the bus from her home in the Bend. Move over Uber!

His aspirations to attend Oklahoma A & M College in Stillwater were about to become a reality. Then his father, Ernest Rice, died of cancer at age 60. Virgil’s sense of responsibility to his mother caused him to cancel his plans for college. Instead, he assumed the role of his father and began farming fulltime.

On a lighter note, according to my mother, Leon Lynn and Virgil were great friends. In their early twenties, they purchased convertibles alike. Virgil always drove well-kept vehicles. 

Virgil’s studious nature became evident in his walk with the Lord as he grew into a man who daily studied his Bible. Soon his knowledge became obvious to others, and he was asked to teach Bible classes in the church. A humble man, he never saw his giftedness for teaching the Bible that enabled others to learn, but many who sat under his teaching benefited from the daily cultivation of his relationship with Jesus.

Mother had preserved a couple of photographs from the publication For Land’s Sake. The newspaper dealt specifically with conservation in farming and ranching. In 1966, Virgil began his commitment to conservation of natural resources, which are so important to the farmer. He earned many recognitions from the county chapter as well as at the state level.  He was a pioneer in understanding that the resources given by God required diligent stewardship. 

Helen and Virgil Rice after he received
the Chevron Conservation Tillage Award
in 1987. Helen and Virgil were married
over 50 years. They were a terrific team.

            Virgil had a very generous heart. My first realization of his generosity occurred when I was a preschooler, and my family was hurriedly erecting a house on land bought by my parents a couple of years earlier. When the landowner wanted to move to the land my family leased, preparation began in earnest and at rapid velocity. Virgil took one of his trucks to Oklahoma City. He knew his way around the city and showed my parents and grandparents places to get lumber, plumbing supplies, fixtures of all sorts, and other building essentials. They purchased what was needed, and he transported it back to the Bend.

Innumerable young people and children attended summer church camp thanks to anonymous gifts given each year by Virgil. One could count on him to donate liberally, but silently, to any effort in our church.

Virgil not only gave monetarily to the work of the Lord, but more importantly, of his time. Each Saturday for many years, he contacted kids for his church bus route. He then drove the Ralston Baptist Church’s bus on Sunday morning to provide a ride for a busload of children and youth. Only heaven will reveal the lives impacted by his visits.

Standing in front of the bus door are the bus drivers - Virgil Rice, Kendall
Richardson, and Bob Bradley. Standing on the bus steps those who enlisted the
riders each Saturday - Sharon Stewart and Gayle Reynard. 

I recall at his funeral that his niece, Vickie Joy Rice Cabell, delivered a short impromptu eulogy as to his loving and tender care of Aunt Emma. Virgil checked daily on his mother’s youngest sister, Emma Rainey Buckley, who lived alone, even though she was in her 90s. He delivered groceries, took her mail to her, and brightened her day even though he had a full sun-up to sundown day ahead of him. (Virgil was blessed to have his daughter-in-law, Barbara Chapman Rice, lovingly care for him, allowing him to spend his final days in the comfort of his home surrounded by those he loved.) 

When Virgil received his diagnosis of malignant cancer, my mother began to pray in faith, believing he would experience healing. It was devastating to her when his health continued to decline. Her consternation continued at his death. Why would he be taken when he was working fervently to tell people about Jesus and His gift of forgiveness for them? Eventually, Mother had to accept that God had a plan greater than what she could see. Virgil’s life continues to stand as a model of caring for God’s creation and sharing with people, in as many ways possible, with his words and actions, how they could have a full life here on earth through Jesus and spend the afterlife in His presence.

One of my favorite photos of Virgil and his only son, Rick.I took this at the
adult Valentine banquet at Ralston Baptist Church on February 13, 1993.