TH E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
410
By A MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN TRANSPORT COMMAND*
Young inspector of planes in Africa, the author knew his verdict carried tremendous responsibility—
" O K , Sir!" haps whispering to himself the magic formula of the mechanic, “A. pilot’s life may depend on the job I do—and ul timate victory.” I went from man to man, checking his finished Work, insisting on perfec tion of operation, making a general nuisance of myself as an inspector must do. But I, too, was caught up in the feeling of the night Weariness dropped, |he plane became an indi vidual, a person for whom we were responsible, and we knew that noth ing else mattered if we just kept her adjusted and ticking like the high- precision watch she should be. “That’s all, Sir,” one of the boys said as I bent down to check the last system. “She’s ready to fly.” B The weary, tense hours were over, the work was complete. I picked up the plane’s record, swiftly checked once more the mechanics’ initialed ad justments, scrawled “O.K.” across the sheet, and signed my name. The pilot came up and I handed him the release. “She’s O.K., Sir,” I said as his intent eyes scanned the sheet for any forgotten adjustment. “I’m sure of it.” “O.K., if you say so,” he agreed quietly; “You’re the last word on this job, you know.” Somehow, the way he said it brought back to me a transaction of some three years before, when a 'different kind of work had been performed, but one in finitely more important. That time I was the plane, so to speak—I, a kid of eighteen, sitting in the Church of the Open Door in Los Angeles. I had been there many times before, for church-going was a habit in our fam ily. But this time I was "on inspec tion,” and I knew it: God was looking me over, and there were a lot of things that He found wrong. I ai^gued that I’d fix them up—but I knew I couldn’t
I STRUGGLED up from clouds of sleep as dense as the African darkness outside. “Planes coming in,” one -of the me chanics called to me, pulling on. his wrinkled brown coveralls and hurry ing out into the night Outside,,in the improvised hangars, we waited for the incoming planes. I glanced around the group of unshaven “ grease-monkeys,” their eyes red- rimmed from lack of sleep. We had worked some sixteen hours the day be forehand after but a few short hours of oblivion, we must be at it again. Not a man complained, but, with eyes blazing with purpose, each awaited his plane. There was a roar of powerful mo tors, blue flame from the exhausts gleamed against the darkness of the night and the planes were in: planes that might be combat planes, being ferried to the various fighting fronts; planes transporting key military and diplomatic officials* on various mis sions; cargo planes bringing in vital war materials or carrying strategic raw materials out on their return trip. These thoughts were enough to drive sléep from our eyes and make the routine of servicing planes and speed ing them on their way, something ex citing and vital. With practiced precision, the fuel and oil tanks were rolled out for the refueling. Then the m e c h a n i c s swarmed over the planes, working swiftly and silently,* each man intent on his part of the job, checking and recheeking to locate any parts badly worn or out of 'adjustment, and per- *For military and personal reasons, the author of this account is anonymous. Returning to Los Angeles on a brief furlough from Africa , he paid a visit to one who had been his Sun - day-school teacher some eight years before, and who had followed him with interest and prayer . This article is the outgrowth of that pleasant conversation*
I wasn’t wise enough. I wasn’t strong enough. And then it came to me, a s ; the preacher went on speaking from the Word of God, that self-improve ment wasn’t my job at all. A tremendous struggle went on in my heart, for I didn’t like the impli cation of that text: “Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us.” It v'~'- a _ig before I could look up and say, “All right, Uord. You take over from here. I accept Your salvation—there isn’t any other that is good enough. I accept Your plan for my life, too. As You give me grace for it, I’m going to walk with You every day.” It seemed to 'me, as I looked back on that earlier scene* that the Lord Jesus Christ Himself had reached down and written on my heart the fact of His own righteousness imputed to me, a sinner. Not in my right, but in His, there was the verdict, for all the world to read: “O.K., Sir!” The sense of the wonder of it swept over me as I stumbled wearily back to the barracks. It was dawn now, and the glory of a West African sun rise was spread before me, a fitting symbol of Christ's work on my behalf. The thought buoyed me up. In spite of the weariness and stress' of the past day and night, I felt keyed up, alive—my fatigue was gone for tire moment, and my heart was full of praise for His goodness to me for every need. And then, on the way, I met my good friend Olaf, and that was an other joy that I could count. Olaf meant a great deal to me, because, you see, God had sent him into my life directly in answer to prayer. He had been praying, too, and the Lord brought us together. Olaf was a part of God’s answer to my earlier decision
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