It was supposed to be just another routine flight into Chicago, where my parents live. I had been counting down the hours to pick up my husband, Andrew, from the airport. For the first time in a long while, we had carved out a kid-free weekend. The hotel was booked, grandparents were lined up, and I had a list of Chicago Christmas events ready. It was finally going to be a weekend just for us.
I sat at my parents’ house, waiting for Andrew’s usual text: “Leaving Jeff,” the signal that it was time to head to Midway. At 11:22 a.m., the message came through. My parents asked if they could come with me to pick him up, but for reasons I still don’t understand, I said no. I reassured them that the kids and I would be fine. They had always been worriers, and I wanted to calm their hearts. I didn’t realize I wasn’t preparing my own for what was about to happen.
I loaded the kids into the car and started the familiar 30-minute drive to the airport. Normally, I would rush straight to arrivals, but that day I decided to take my time, not wanting to pressure him while he wrapped up paperwork. As we drove, anticipation filled me. We’d been apart for a week, and the thought of seeing him again brought back those butterflies from when we first met—the kind that make your stomach flip in the most wonderful way. Those storybook feelings followed me the entire drive, unaware they would be the last I’d ever feel like that.
I passed a Starbucks and almost stopped, but I decided to wait and see what Andrew wanted. He was probably already waiting, and I couldn’t stand the thought of delaying seeing him. I pulled into the cell phone lot and parked, the kids happily watching a movie in the backseat. I started recording an Instagram story about marriage when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voicemail. Seconds later, a text came through. It was a group message with Andrew and me included. The only words I remember seeing were “plane crash.”
As calmly as I could, I called the number, never imagining where the conversation would lead. It was a friend from our small group. He told me Andrew wasn’t answering his phone and that he’d heard there was a plane crash in Memphis. At first, I felt relief—Memphis, Tennessee wasn’t on Andrew’s flight plan. But then he clarified: Memphis, Indiana. A small town just north of where we live.
After that, everything blurred. My mind raced while my body felt frozen. I called Andrew again and again, waiting to hear his gentle voice tell me he had landed and was just finishing paperwork. There was no answer. I sat there in that parking lot with my three-year-old and one-year-old, feeling as if I had left my body entirely, struggling to understand what was unfolding.
I searched desperately for Mike’s number—Andrew’s copilot, his “work wife.” When he answered, he didn’t say much, only that I needed to call my parents and have them come get me. I knew then that this was serious. He knew something I didn’t. I called my parents, asking them to look up the plane’s tail number, hoping against all logic that it wasn’t Andrew’s flight. I remember screams, sobs, and the moment all feeling drained from my body. I remember begging God to wake me from this nightmare, even questioning my faith in the same breath. I remember my children asking for their daddy. I stepped out of the car so they wouldn’t see me fall apart and stared at the sky, watching planes land, thinking, “This cannot be happening to us.”
I called the state police, demanding to speak with someone at the crash site. Though I was four hours away and felt lifeless, I needed to hear the truth from someone there. I needed confirmation—needed someone to tell me there were no survivors. I needed proof that my husband was gone.
When the coroner finally called, I barely remember the conversation. Our family clung to impossible questions—Was there a body? Could he be alive, waiting to be found? Was he injured, unconscious? But I already knew the answers. News footage began to surface, images of the wreckage filling the screen. I knew no one could have survived.
I waited what felt like an eternity for my family to arrive. When they did, my dad had to lift me from the ground because I couldn’t stand on my own. Nothing prepares you for trauma like this. Nothing prepares you for the moment you learn that an airplane carrying the person you love most has violently met the ground.
That day, I learned what PTSD really means. I learned how completely life changes when you lose your spouse. I learned what it means to raise children without their father. As we approach one year—November 30th—the longest time I’ve ever been without Andrew since we met more than ten years ago, I still struggle to grasp life without him. He knew how deeply I loved him. He was the most devoted man I’ve ever known—a Christ-centered husband, father, son, brother, friend, pilot, fisherman, craftsman, adventurer. He was the total package, the fairy-tale husband people dream of. I am honored to have been his wife and to have shared his life. He was a perfectly imperfect gift from God, and I will always be grateful.
Andrew loved flying. He chased that dream from a young age and worked tirelessly to make it reality. He studied every checklist and flight plan. I still ask how this could have happened. There are no clear answers, no closure, no peace. There are theories and evidence and unanswered questions, but none of it changes our loss. We live in a broken world, where choices can lead to tragedy. Nothing will replace what was taken from us. I’ve chosen not to live in the “what ifs,” but instead to look to the skies with peace, believing that beauty can still rise from devastation.
I never thought I could survive this world without him. Yet here we are, nearly a year later—blurred, painful, and somehow still standing. People tell me I’m strong or inspiring, and while I appreciate the kindness, I know I wouldn’t be here without my faith, without two innocent children who needed me, and without an overwhelming support system. In the days after the accident, prayers and messages poured in from around the world. I was surrounded by love. Even in the darkest moments, I felt God’s presence sustaining me. Knowing I will one day be reunited with Andrew in a far greater place gives me strength to keep moving forward.
I’ve faced many fears since the accident and still have more to overcome, but I’ve gained a new perspective on life. Everything can change in an instant. I choose to live fully. I grieve every day, yet I’ve found freedom in grief—the ability to feel sorrow and joy together. Both can exist, and there is beauty in that.
Soon after the accident, a fellow pilot started a GoFundMe for our family. One comment from a donor stayed with me: “The ultimate flight will be when our destination is Heaven, the gate agent is our Lord and Savior, and we will know we arrived on time because God filed the flight plan.” I often picture Andrew being met at those gates. It brings me comfort.
Tragedy will touch every life. Loss is unavoidable. So live today, fully and intentionally. Appreciate every moment—even the hard ones. You can overcome fear. You are never alone. I accept this painful new normal because I know it is not the end. One day, we will be reunited in an eternity without mourning or death. Until then, I will continue to grieve—with hope.
