Peace at 30,000 Feet
What My Aunt Lisa Taught Me About Dying Well
I don’t mind flying... until there’s turbulence.
Then I hate flying.
Recently I was on a plane heading home after a trip. We were somewhere over the Midwest, cruising at altitude, when the turbulence hit.
Not the gentle bumps you can ignore like ripples on a lake. The bad kind.
The ‘we’re all going to die’ kind of turbulence.
The plane started thrashing side to side, dropping suddenly, jerking back up. Outside the window, lightning split the sky in jagged white scars.
The cabin lights flickered. Someone gasped. A baby started crying.
I remember with vividness how nearly every soul in that cabin began to turn their heads—slowly, reluctantly—peering across the aisles at one another, as if each hoped to find in some stranger’s face an answer to the question their own terror dared not ask aloud: “Is this the end?”
And what I saw in their eyes was precisely what they must have seen in mine:
Fear.
That primal, gut-level fear that comes when you realize you have absolutely no control over what happens next.
Because that’s what horrible turbulence does.
It strips away the illusion of control. It reminds you that you’re suspended 30,000 feet in the air in a metal tube, and there is nothing you can do about it.
You can’t leave. You can’t hide. You can’t ask the captain to pull over so you can get off.
You just have to sit there and endure it.
I white-knuckled the armrests, every muscle in my body tense. My heart was pounding. My breath was shallow.
God... please... just make it stop.
But it didn’t stop.
The plane kept dropping. The turbulence got worse. Every jolt made my stomach lurch, made me painfully aware of how high up we were, how vulnerable we were.
I turned to the window, thinking maybe if I could just see what was happening out there, maybe I’d feel better. Maybe I could assess the situation. Maybe I could do something.
But all I saw was fog.
Thick, dark, suffocating fog.
No ground. No landmarks. No horizon.
Just darkness.
Just nothing.
And in that moment, I felt completely and utterly alone.
The Light in the Darkness
But then... I saw something.
A small light on the wing of the plane.
Just a single red light, blinking steadily in the chaos. Cutting through the fog. Shining in the storm.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t look away from it.
And as I watched that light... something shifted inside me.
A wave of peace I could not explain swept over me. A calm that made absolutely no sense given the circumstances.
It wasn’t because the turbulence stopped. It didn’t.
It wasn’t because I suddenly felt safe. I didn’t.
It was something else. Something deeper.
In that moment... in the middle of the storm, in the grip of fear, staring at that tiny light blinking faithfully in the darkness... I heard God’s voice.
Not audibly. But unmistakably.
Do not fear, for I am with you.
I am the light in your darkness.
I am here.
I will not leave you or forsake you.
I love you. I am here.
Do not be afraid.
And suddenly... I thought of my Aunt Lisa.
The Woman Who Held Hands with the Dying
Lisa was a beautiful person.
A devoted wife. A loving mother. A woman who spent a great deal of her life working in medical hospice, bringing comfort to people in their final days.
She would sit beside their beds. Hold their hands. Speak gently to them. Pray with them.
She was present in the hardest, most terrifying moments of people’s lives... the moments when they were facing the ultimate turbulence, the ultimate loss of control: the sicknesses that leads unto death.
I remember asking her once, “How do you do it? How do you sit with people who are dying and not fall apart?”
She smiled... that gentle, knowing smile she always had.
“Because most of the time,” she said, “they actually teach me what peace looks like.”
I must have looked confused, because she continued.
“Aaron, I’ve sat with so many people in their last hours. And you know what I see? I see people who are at peace. People who smile in the face of death. Not because they’re in denial. Not because they’re pretending it’s not scary. But… because they know where they’re going.”
She leaned in, her eyes bright with conviction.
“They know the God who loves them. They know Jesus, the one who died for them so they could live forever. And in the most horrible, stormy moment of life... they see the light. They see Him. And they’re not afraid.”
I sat there, stunned by the weight of what she was saying.
She had watched people die well.
Not easily. Not painlessly. But well.
With dignity. With hope. With peace that made no earthly sense.
The Last Time I Saw Her
That conversation happened during one of the last few days I saw Lisa alive.
She had been battling cancer for a long time.
A brutal, relentless fight… and by the time she came to visit my family, the cancer was winning.
She was tired… in pain… but she came anyway.
She wanted to see us at least one more time.
I remember both the joy and sorrow of sitting and talking to her, the joy of her presence, her laugh, the way she brought back pleasant childhood memories of Oregon… and yet the sorrow of seeing her in pain… of wondering if this would be our last deep conversation.
We sat together in my parents’ living room, and Lisa told me about what she was looking forward to. Meeting Jesus face to face. Seeing her loved ones who had gone before her. Walking streets of gold. Dwelling in the new Heaven and Earth. No more pain. No more tears.
Her eyes lit up like a child talking about Christmas morning.
But every few minutes... she would wince. Let out a small whimper. Her face would tighten with pain.
The cancer was everywhere. In her bones. In her organs. Stealing her strength, her comfort, her very life.
And yet.
And yet.
In the middle of all that suffering, she smiled.
As we talked about Heaven, her whole countenance changed.
The pain was still there, but it didn’t define her. It didn’t defeat her.
Because she wasn’t looking at the pain.
She was looking at the Light.
The Theology of the Light
Scripture is full of this imagery, isn’t it?
Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”(John 8:12)
David wrote, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” (Psalm 23:4)
Paul declared, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” (Philippians 1:21)
John saw a vision of the New Jerusalem and wrote, “The city does not need the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp.” (Revelation 21:23)
The Christian hope is not that we avoid the storm.
It’s not that we skip the turbulence, dodge the suffering, escape the valley.
The Christian hope is that in the middle of the storm, we see the Light.
We see Jesus.
And when we see Him... everything changes.
Not because the circumstances change. But because we change.
Our perspective shifts. Our fear loosens its grip.
Our peace becomes untethered from our situation.
Paul, writing from a cold jail cell, calls it “the peace of God, which transcends all understanding” (Philippians 4:7).
It’s a peace that makes no sense to anyone watching from the outside.
How can you have peace when your body is ravaged by cancer?
How can you smile when you’re weeks away from death?
How can you feel calm when the plane is shaking and the fog is thick and you can’t see the ground?
Because you see the Light.
Because you know the One who holds you.
Because you trust that He is with you... not just watching from a distance, but in the storm, in the pain, in the valley.
What I Learned on That Plane
When I saw that little red light on the wing, blinking steadily in the storm, something clicked for me.
That light wasn’t there to calm the storm.
It was there to remind me I wasn’t alone in it.
It was a beacon. A signal. A promise.
You’re not lost. You’re not abandoned. There is a guide. There is a way through.
And that’s when I believe God spoke to me.
Not with an audible voice, but with a clarity I couldn’t ignore.
“I am the light in your darkness. I am here. I will not leave you.”
And suddenly, Aunt Lisa’s face came to mind.
The way she smiled through the pain.
The way she talked about Heaven with childlike wonder.
The way she held the hands of the dying and helped them see the Light.
She wasn’t merely a hospice worker doing her job while battling her own sickness.
She was a living testimony to the peace of God.
A woman who, in her own darkest valley, looked to the Light and was not afraid. A disciple who, while in her darkest moments, bore the light and let it shine before the weary.
You Will Have Storms
Jesus never promised us a storm-free life.
In fact, He promised the opposite.
“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
You will face turbulence.
You will have moments where the plane is shaking, the fog is thick, and you can’t see the ground.
You will feel out of control, vulnerable, terrified.
There will be times when your body betrays you, when your circumstances crush you, when the darkness feels suffocating.
Cancer. Job loss. Betrayal. Grief. Depression. Anxiety. Loneliness.
The storms of life are real, and they are relentless.
But here’s what I need you to hear:
In those dark times, look to the Light.
He is with you.
Not just near you. Not just watching you. Not just feeling bad for you.
With you.
In the storm. In the pain. In the valley.
He is the light on the wing, shining in the darkness, calling you to trust Him.
The Strength to Face Death
I’ve never seen someone so strong in the face of death as Aunt Lisa.
But here’s the thing...
I don’t think it was her strength. Not really.
I think it was Jesus’ strength in her.
She had spent her whole life following Him. Trusting Him. Serving Him.
Loving Him more than she loved her own life.
And when the time came to walk through the darkest valley... she wasn’t afraid.
Because she had been holding His hand all along.
She knew His voice. She knew His character. She knew His promises.
And she knew where she was going.
So when the storm hit... when the cancer spread and the pain became unbearable and death came knocking... she looked to the Light.
She saw Jesus.
And she smiled.
Until the Day You See Him Face to Face
The plane eventually landed that day.
The turbulence stopped. The fog cleared. I walked off that plane and went home to my family.
But the lesson stayed with me.
When the storm comes, when the turbulence hits, when you feel like you’re free-falling and there’s nothing you can do...
Look to the Light.
He is with you. He loves you.
He will see you through.
Not just through the turbulence of this life... but all the way Home.
Until the day you see Him face to face.
That’s what Aunt Lisa would want you to know.
That’s what she showed me in her life and in her death.
Never give up.
Do not fear.
He is with you.
And one day... the fog will clear, the storm will end, and you will step off the plane into His arms.
Where there is no more pain. No more tears. No more fear.
Only Light.
Scriptures for the Storm
If you’re in the middle of turbulence right now, here are some verses to hold onto. Read them. Speak them out loud. Let them remind you of the Light.
Psalm 23:4 – “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
Isaiah 41:10 – “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
John 8:12 – “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
2 Corinthians 4:16-18 – “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
Philippians 1:21 – “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
Revelation 21:4 – “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
Romans 8:38-39 – “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
In memory of Aunt Lisa, who held hands with the dying and showed us all how to face death well.
Bro… so much is good about this, but you totally triggered all my flight anxiety as I read this! 😂
This made me think of John Mark McMillan’s song “Nothing Stands Between”. It has a lyric that says, “I see the light, I see the lightning, I hear Your voice inside the crashing thunder, saying nothing stands between us , oh nothing stands between, nothing stands between us, but love now.”