My five-year-old son and I were inseparable. Could I learn to accept Josh going where I could not?

In 2003, five-year-old Joshua Snelgrove died when the light plane his dad was piloting crashed soon after takeoff. Last month in Faith & Friends, Josh’s mother, Wendy, recounted her tale of that sad event. This month, Josh’s dad talks about the day his life changed forever.

It was a fair spring day, sunny with a strong breeze. I was looking forward to a relaxing flight near our home in Haliburton, Ont. My 1946 Aeronca Champion, a high-wing, two-seater light airplane, had been totally overhauled and the test flights had all gone well.
An additional bonus was that my five-year-old son, Joshua, was going to accompany me. He had caught the flying bug, too, and this day, May 22, 2003, was going to be the culmination of a dream for both of us.

On our way to the airport, Josh didn’t run and hug his mom as usual. Instead, he yelled out to Wendy, “Mom, you’re the best mom in the world!”

We settled into our seats, headsets in place, ready for adventure. During the pre-flight tests, I caught a glimpse of Josh. Hands folded, head bowed, he did what each of us should do more often-pray. With the faith of a child, he had understood everything that his mom and I had tried to teach him, in a way that put me to shame.

“Contact!” The engine jumped to life. The customary radio call to the airport manager was made at 4:57 p.m., and we taxied to the runway. I shoved the throttle forward and we headed down the runway, the airplane dancing a little as we cleared the hill on the left side with its ever-present turbulence.

Have you ever had a moment of clarity? Something happens unexpectedly that is so important that it changes the rest of your life? I was about to have one of those moments.

To Be With Jesus
A slight cough in the engine. Did I hear right? Thoughts raced through my head: I did hear it. It shouldn’t be there. I’d better turn around and land-now!

I eased the throttle back, levelled out and commenced a left-hand turn over the tops of the Haliburton hardwoods, whose once-benign branches now seemed liked claws reaching for us. I was reacting, doing what I’d been trained to do. Routine …

What wasn’t routine was that our plane got caught in a wind shear caused by the hill at the end of the runway. One wing dropped, leaving the other pointed up, and the lower wing stalled.
A stall is when the wing no longer produces lift, where there isn’t enough air running over it to produce that vacuum on the topside needed to hold you in the air. It’s a dangerous situation when that close to the trees, though not insurmountable. But if a stall happens sooner on one wing than the other, the aircraft goes into what is called an “insipient spin,” the beginnings of the nose-dive we’ve all seen in the movies.

That’s exactly what happened to us. Five seconds after I had started the turn back, the engine shut down completely, and we plunged into the trees. My last recollection was branches whishing by … then I awoke.

I glimpsed a torn line hanging from the left-hand wing, fuel cascading out. Where is Josh? I pulled my body around to look for my son, but all I could see was a birch tree trunk. Panic set in. “Josh!”

Then I heard him moan.

Every night at bedtime, prayers are said and covers are tucked in. When I go to bed hours later, I make the rounds from room to room, a final tuck-in, a final kiss. I bend over and whisper into the ears of my children, each in turn, “I love you and Jesus loves you.”

Josh moaned, not in pain, but in a state of semi-consciousness, as if he had heard a message, but was too tired to do anything else.
I reacted instinctively by saying, “I love you and Jesus loves you.” Then I added, “Go to be with Jesus.” What made me say that is beyond me, but I never heard anything else from Josh.

Getting Help
Over the next three hours, I faded in and out of consciousness. I had never felt such complete helplessness in my life, lying there motionless and half dead.

When I was conscious, I tried to assess things. Who would come for us? The airport manager had closed up the airport and wouldn’t miss our return. The mechanic had probably gone home. Wendy might think something was wrong, but what would she do? After dark, they wouldn’t find us, even when they eventually started to look. The night would hide everything.

I didn’t think I could hold out until morning. And Josh might just make it if I went and got help. I had to do something.

My next recollection was of my feet hitting the ground. Every movement through the forest to the main road was agony. I badly needed to rest, but I couldn’t sit by the road in case I passed out and a car hit me. On the other hand, if I collapsed out of sight, they’d never find me, so I summoned all my will and stood in the middle of the road. I prayed as hard as I have ever prayed.

Soon, headlights broke the deepening gloom. I waved my arms and started shouting. The car stopped a safe distance away. I assured the lady that I wasn’t drunk, and she cautiously agreed to go get her neighbour and call the police. Soon, they returned and I explained what had happened as we waited for help.

The rest is a blur: the ambulance, Wendy arriving as if from out of nowhere, tubes inserted into my collapsed lungs, then finally passing out just before the helicopter ride to a hospital in Toronto.

A Deeper Faith
Life today is different than before May 22, 2003, because Joshua went to be with Jesus. There almost seems to be a different filter on the light that shines on us now that Josh isn’t here. We still live by God’s grace but the phrase “Jesus loves you” has taken on a different meaning for me now. It was difficult to reconcile, but with the love of my family and the support of our church, I’ve come to realize that God’s love is inexplicably richer and in some way divinely simpler than before our loss.

My broken ribs and collapsed lungs have healed, the lingering pain from where my back was broken is tolerable, but the scar on my face is a constant reminder of things past. There will never be another moment with my son, but our family has learned to accept Josh’s going on ahead of us. The faith the Lord has granted each of us has been deepened and challenged by having known Josh, both with us and not.

by Robert Snelgrove

Reprinted from Faith & Friends June 2007