'172 Thank-Yous'

I mentioned some time ago in a blog how I was aboard an airplane that spent two and a half hours preparing for the possibility of a crash. There were unknown mechanical issues, and as we circled in the sky, so much of my life flashed before my eyes. We were scheduled to land at MacArthur Airport but were diverted to JFK, where, thankfully, we landed without a hitch.

It is no secret that air travel is extraordinarily safe. Every day, some 13 to 14 million people around the world fly, most without incident. I read recently that out of approximately 38.7 million commercial flights in a year, only eight involved a fatal accident. That's an astonishing safety record. Flying is statistically extraordinarily safe -yet even a 99.9998% safety rate doesn't necessarily reassure someone who has experienced a such a scary flight.

And yet, all these years later, that one experience still lives deeply within me. It left me with a nearly crippling fear of flying and changed my eagerness to travel. Statistics are reassuring, but they don't always erase the memories our minds and bodies hold on to.

Perhaps that's why I was so haunted by the recent news of Flydubai Flight 1073, traveling from Dubai to Tel Aviv on September 30.

According to news reports, the copilot attacked and seriously injured the captain and allegedly attempted to crash the airplane. The plane plunged thousands of feet as passengers and crew struggled to regain control. The wounded captain managed to open the cockpit door, allowing passengers to intervene. Two additional pilots traveling aboard the plane eventually took control and landed it safely in Saudi Arabia.

Every life aboard was saved. What a miracle! What amazing heroes!

I could honestly imagine and almost feel the terror those passengers must have felt. The sudden realization that something was terribly wrong. Gripping fear of what the next minutes could hold. The thoughts of husbands, wives, children, parents, and all the ordinary things they might never see or do again.

And then I began to wonder.

What if every one of those survivors wrote a thank-you note to the people who saved their lives?

Not necessarily a formal letter or an official expression of gratitude, but a simple note, written in their own words, from their own hearts, in their own languages.

I like to imagine what those notes might sound like.

Dear Heroes,

You have given me another chance at life. Another visit with my elderly mother. Another hug from my daughter. Another chance to tell the people I love just how much I love them.

Dear Heroes,

Because of you, I will be there when my daughter graduates. I'll probably cry and embarrass her, but I will be there.

Dear Heroes,

Thank you for another ordinary Tuesday. Another cup of coffee in my favorite chair. Another walk with my dog. Another chance to see the sun rise over my backyard.

Dear Heroes,

I don't know your names, and you don't know mine. But because of you, my children still have their father. How do you thank someone for that?

And perhaps from a child:

Dear Heroes,

Thank you for bringing my mommy home.

I can only imagine the feelings that each letter would hold-the gratitude that such immense bravery saved so many lives-so many dreams-entire generations. And I wonder whether those brave people who stepped forward that day could ever fully understand just how many tomorrows they had given back to the world.

But then I remembered something about my own flight.

After we landed at JFK, we were taken by bus from a distant runway to the terminal. At some point, our pilot climbed aboard the bus and said something along the lines of, "You think YOU had a bad day!"

It hadn't occurred to me until that moment what an extraordinary burden he had carried that day. Here was a man who had just held the responsibility for all our lives, and there we all stood together on that bus- with the hope and blessing of another day.

I eventually made my way home and sat outside alone, amongst the trees and the birds, trying to absorb what had happened. The airplane had landed, but a part of me was still up there in the sky. Each breath seemed like a new and extraordinary gift. I knew I had to gather my wits about me and prepare to return to the classroom the next morning. But there was something new I was carrying with me - a deeper understanding of both the fragility and the preciousness of life. All these years later, I can still feel it.

And maybe somewhere along the way, I realized that there was one more letter that needed to be written.

Mine.

Dear Captain,

I don't know your name. I don't know what went through your mind during those two and a half hours, or what you were thinking as you brought us safely to the ground.

Because of you, I have had all these additional years. Years filled with family and friends, laughter and tears, ordinary mornings and extraordinary moments. So many things I might never have experienced.

And although I never said it to you, I want to say it now.

Thank you.

I wonder how many other thank-you notes are waiting to be written.

Not necessarily to pilots or heroes who saved us from disaster, but to the ordinary people who have made our lives a bit better just by being part of them.

Perhaps we don't need to wait until someone saves our life to thank them for making it worth living.

And perhaps that's something worth thinking about this week.

Is there a thank you note we’ve been waiting to write?