NOT MY TIME

Most of us can think back over our lives and recall instances in which we have cancelled a trip, changed modes of transportation or made some other change of plan resulting in the avoidance of an earth quake, tornado, train wreck, plane crash or some other disaster.  From time to time, we pass an hour at a party or some other social gathering trading stories of our near brushes with the Grim Reaper.  Recently, when I find myself in  a discussion of hair-raising tales of dangerous encounters, I am able to hold the floor for a ten or fifteen minute recitation of being  in very close proximity to four tornados in the summer of  2003.

It seemed that every time I went on an automobile trip that summer we intersected the path of one or more tornados.  The most frightening of these experiences was when an F-1 tornado flipped  an eighteen wheel semi about 200 feet ahead of  my minivan.  I keep thinking what it would have been like inside that van if the twister had touched down 200  feet behind the eighteen-wheeler.  Usually, someone in the group responds to my story of these narrow escapes with the statement, "It just wasn''t your time to die."   Since the summer of 2003, apprehension about severe storms has caused me to monitor severe weather and vary travel plans accordingly but statements such as the previous quotation have raised a philosophical issue for me.

If I am predestined to die at a time certain, logic tells me that planning to avoid danger is a non-productive activity.  So far, however, fear has caused me to continue to strive for self preservation.  I will have to commit more time and thought to reconciling the dilemma of predestination versus free will before changing my usual habit of taking safety precautions. Similar speculation on the role of predestination in determining the course of our lives must have entered the thoughts of the lady who is the central character of this story.

The morning of October 12, 1983 is indelibly stamped in the memory of Kathy Raticliffe by two intense, contrasting emotional responses.  The ringing of the phone in the hotel room occupied by Kathy and her husband Bob on the campus of Notre Dame University was not the expected wake-up call.  The voice was that of her eldest son Bob Jr. informing her that her grand daughter, Sheryl, was born the previous evening at 9:00 P. M.

This news brought great joy and jubilation to both Bob and Kathy, but the next news flash from Bob Jr. aroused contrasting emotions of anxiety, apprehension and regret.  Air Illinois flight 701, on which Kathy had been scheduled to fly from  Chicago Megs Airport to Carbondale Illinois, had crashed at 8:53 the previous evening, killing all on board.

While Kathy was completing the call with her son, her husband tuned in the ABC news which was reporting the crash of flight 701.  The news desk announcer began: "A tragic story out of Southern Illinois!  Air Illinois Flight 701 en route from Chicago to Carbondale, Illinois crashed in a field near Pinckneyville approximately thirty miles short of its destination.  On board were seven passengers and three crew members; there were no survivors.  Names of the deceased are being withheld pending notification of their families.  A team of investigators has been dispatched to the scene by the  National Transportation Safety Board."

When Bob muted the TV, both he and Cathy expressed ambivalent emotions about the tragedy. They were extremely relieved that Cathy had decided to cancel her AMTRAK reservations from Southbend to Chicago as well as her seat  on Flight 701 in order to tour more of the Notre Dame Campus.  Only yesterday, she had taken Bob''s advice to enjoy the local scenery while he completed his conference on Adult Education.  They would then enjoy a leisurely  drive back to