It was some forty years ago, and I was flying home from somewhere, the last leg of the trip being from Memphis to Columbus MS where I pastored.
It was a dark and stormy night.
And the planes assigned to our Golden Triangle Airport by Southern Airways were the ancient Martin 404s. Prop jets, maybe they are called.
We bounced all over the sky that night. Lightning flashed around us, rain pelted our little plane, and thunder crashed.
You’ve heard of white-knucklers; this was the mother of them all.
The next day in the supermarket, a woman whom I did not know introduced herself. “My husband was on that awful flight from Memphis last night.”
Oh yes. That was unforgettable, I said.