A {Aviation}

To kick this series off, let's talk about aviation, but first, a little background...

As you know by now, Jason is a pilot. He's been flying since he was 16 and he's passionate about it, but with that passion, he wanted purpose.

Four years ago Jason took a regional airline position, it wasn't his dream job, but he knew that this was the best way to gain flight time. We knew if we were ever going into mission aviation one day (we thought in like 20 years!), he would need the hours and experience to get him down the road.

Fast forward to 2010. With thousands of hours now under his belt, the passion Jason had to fly was still there, but the urge to have a purpose in that flying was raging. Flying all over the U.S. and being gone 4-5 days a week isn't all that it's cracked up to be--he wanted more. Last March the Lord made it very apparent that it was time to give that passion some purpose for HIM.

Missions and aviation....an unlikely pair? Not really when you look beyond the U.S. and go into third world countries where isolated, rural, tropical areas are the norm, transportation and resources scarce. Add missionaries attempting to reach people groups living in these areas and you have yourself quite a combination of needs.

Here is a favorite story from Mary Pearson, translator in Papua New Guinea, for over 23 years and her thoughts on mission aviation.

It was an early morning in March 1986 the first time I laid eyes on a Cessna 206.

My friend and I grabbed each other in a fearful embrace.

We had never seen such a small plane. How in the world would our families fit into that tiny thing? Could it fly safely over rugged mountain ranges and miles of open ocean? Find a remote village and land on a tiny strip of coral jutting out of the water?

We were about to begin translating God’s Word into Lote, a language in Papua New Guinea that had never been written down. Its speakers had never seen the Bible in their own language.

That first weekend, we walked 3 1/2 hours down a coral road, six degrees south of the equator, to join an Easter celebration. We carried small index cards for reminders and said something like, “Ek Maria.” My name is Mary. “Iat nge Amerika.”I come from America. We’ve come to learn your language ... This is all I know.That’s how it began.

But to get there, we had to board the tiny, winged vessel that stood before us. As we squeezed into the cabin, we felt like we were taking our lives into our own hands.

We were wrong.

Turns out we were putting our lives into the capable hands of pilots and aviation mechanics, whose honed skills and sharp eyes enabled us to fly safely anywhere in this rugged country. They had received years of training and could be earning a comfortable salary. Instead, they used their expertise to serve missionaries around the world—giving their very lives to save ours.

Our first four years were the toughest. A strange place. A foreign culture. An unbearable climate. A new language. Learning to speak an unwritten language and writing it down phonetically often had us stumped, feeling we’d never get to the next level. But word by word, phrase by phrase, we got there. Meanwhile, we fell completely in love with the warm, friendly Lote people.

During those long village stays, away from everything familiar, we received visits from the angels: those beautiful white-winged planes we grew to cherish, no matter the size.

The hum of an engine breaking through clouds brought joyful anticipation. Mail bags! News from home! Fresh vegetables, meat, medical supplies—comforts to help us through the lonely months.

I’ll never forget the time a plane departed after one of its wonderful deliveries. A few minutes later, we heard it coming in for a second landing. I jumped to the radio and asked the pilot if everything was okay. “Yes,” he said, “I just realized I forgot to unload your Christmas presents.”

Those precious 20-minute visits connected us to the outside world.

On one extraordinary November day, the plane landed on our little airstrip loaded with precious cargo: books. The Lote co-translator stood over my husband’s shoulder as he opened the box and pulled out the first copy of the Gospel of Mark in the Lote language. It was the first time he ever held God’s Word in his own language. He took it, sat down in the shade of a tree, and read hungrily: “Helenga urana toto ngana nge Iesus Kristus nenge Nenut Non Palaungana Tuna.” The very good news of Jesus Christ, God’s Son.

One year, a cyclone destroyed our village house; we were rescued by a pilot willing to fly through turbulent winds, knowing the plane had been inspected and checked as always. A year later, pilots—once again—were key to building our new house, as they shuttled builders from the nearest town into our village.

It’s now 23 years since we arrived, and the Lote Scriptures are at the printers.

We’ve had twenty-three years of safe flights, medical rescues, mail and grocery deliveries, and flights for national translators to attend training courses. Twenty-three years of flights enduring high winds and wicked rain storms, over volcanoes, mountains and oceans. Twenty-three years without incident, bringing us to the place we now call home, so the Lote people can have God’s Word.

Because these pilots, mechanics and trainers have invested their lives in Bible translation, this will be the generation when the Lote people hold the New Testament in their hands, reading it in their own language for the first time.

The need is great for skilled pilots and mechanics to help carry out the work of Bible Translation into some of the true ends of the earth. 


This is why we're going.