Extravagant Graces

I was jolted awake by an ear-splitting, thunderous boom. It felt like a gun had been shot inches from my head. The plane lurched wildly. Swirling debris smothered me as smoke filled the cabin. Oxygen masks dropped. I yanked at mine—it wouldn’t budge! Fear seized me. I told myself: Don’t panic. Look at how others have pulled their masks down. You can do this.

Twenty-four hours earlier I’d been in Salem, Oregon, preparing for my trip to Greece and Turkey to purchase jewelry for my collectibles business. I wasn’t even supposed to be on TWA 840. I’d changed my schedule when the travel agent found me an earlier flight—what could be wrong with starting my trip sooner?

At 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday, April 1, 1986, my brother-in-law dropped me off at the airport in Salem. Before I got out of the car, we prayed and I told him I’d be back in a few days.

Fifteen exhausting hours later, I arrived in Rome, Italy. Then I boarded the short leg to Athens. In the aisle seat of my row was an older Greek woman. She asked me in English, “Am I in 8C?”

Since I was in 8A by the window, I assured her she was in the correct place. The plane was filling up, but thankfully no one took the seat between us.

Lunch was chicken salad. We both ate, and then I stuffed a pillow against my window and drifted off to sleep.

We never spoke again.

The burnt smell reminded me of Fourth of July fireworks. My ears still rang from the tremendous explosion. The overhead bins had opened, and the lights were off.

I was now wide awake.

What happened? Where are we?

I saw an American man across the aisle with his oxygen mask on. Since mine wouldn’t release, I jerked on the one above the empty seat next to me. It came down. Desperately, I stretched the elastic string over my head.

Comforted that at least I had the mask on, I turned to my window. I was stunned to see the tops of mountains far below. I had never felt so helpless.

I prayed: “Jesus, only You can help. Nobody even knows we’re in trouble. Please, don’t let us die.”

Trying to get my bearings, I turned to my right. I saw blue sky through a nine-by-three-foot gaping hole in the side of the plane. To my horror, I realized the three rows of seats near the massive opening were now empty.

I hadn’t heard a scream.

I was less than fourteen feet away.

The wind was rushing through the cabin, airplane insulation billowing. From the ceiling and the exposed panels around the rupture, dangled wires and tubes.

Mr. Taylor, a flight attendant, rushed down the aisle carrying a fire extinguisher. He passed me, but quickly realized that he shouldn’t risk being sucked out. He retreated back to first class.

Another attendant came to my row. Desperately clutching the aisle seats, she stared at the empty space where seat 10F had been. She yelled, “Was anyone sitting there?”

“Don’t you have a passenger list?” I shouted.

“Not onboard,” she replied.

Flight attendant Cindy Purdy, only on the job for three weeks, came down the aisle and walked past the hole. I wondered why she dared.

A moment later, members of the crew were laying an elderly American woman across the seats in front of me. Her back was a mass of blood.

Her name was Myrtle. She was from Los Angeles. Her husband, Henry, was also badly injured.

She told me: “We were looking at each other when we saw a fireball. We knew we were going to die any second. We whispered ‘I love you’ to each other.”

Since the seats next to me were empty, a young Saudi couple was moved to them. The wife was named Nahla. Her long dress was ripped off below the knee and her legs were horribly burned. She was wearing only one red shoe. Although her husband, Ibrahim, spoke some English and had traveled abroad before, she only spoke Arabic. This was her first time away from home.

Ibrahim was in a state of shock. He said he had seen passengers blasted out of the hole in the plane’s side. I didn’t want to believe it. He’s confused and hysterical, I thought.

I tried to help Nahla, but what could I do? Would talking to her give her comfort?

Amid all the terror, there was no panic. No one screamed. There was no hysteria. Only a strange quiet existed amid the wild, roaring wind—as though we were suspended between life and death.

One of the crew members shouted: “We will be landing. We’ll disembark using the steps, not the emergency chutes!”

It was a miracle we were still flying. I wasn’t sure that we could land. And what if we ended up in the Mediterranean?

The engines whined as the plane lurched and shook. Would it hold together until we were on the ground? Did we have any landing gear left? As we started our descent, I silently prayed: Come on, you can make it. Just stay in one piece a little longer. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

We were fortunate because Captain Petersen was a pilot with thirty years experience. The landing was bumpy, but without incident. It was almost normal.

As the plane rolled down the runway, many passengers—including myself—started clapping and cheering.

“Thank You, Lord Jesus. Thank You, Lord Jesus,” I gratefully prayed. I’d never been more sincere.

Out of my window, I saw fire engines and ambulances surrounding us.

People scrambled to exit, but the doors didn’t open for an eternity. Eventually medics arrived to carry Myrtle and her husband, Nahla, and the other injured passengers off the plane. The rest of us weren’t permitted to leave.

I stood on wobbly legs and moved to see who I could help. I discovered bits of wreckage were in my hair and on my blouse. No matter how much I brushed, I kept finding new pieces.

I noticed a man holding his head and crying for help. He told me his eyes were badly burned. I ran to the restroom. The tiny room had imploded and the walls were warped, but the sink still worked. Snatching a handful of paper towels, I doused them with water.

I rushed to the man. He kept saying, “My eyes hurt, my eyes,” as he tried to soothe his pain with the wet towels. He said that flying pieces of shrapnel had kept hitting him. Oxygen masks at the back of the plane hadn’t dropped and people had no protection from the blowing debris. Thank the Lord that He had provided for me.

Eventually, the 110 remaining uninjured passengers were allowed to disembark. People filed out serenely. I wanted to know what had happened, so I stayed on board.

I headed to the hole. Some of the flight crew and I studied the damage. I spotted a briefcase and Nahla’s missing red shoe.

Mr. Taylor said, “It was a bomb....”