A RESOLUTION FIRMLY PLANTED
Even if he had the time to wallow in the famously unfun first few stages of grief -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression -- a New Year's resolution is a New Year's resolution.
That's one way of looking at it, anyway.
One year ago, on Jan. 15, as he was preparing to die, Fred Berretta embraced acceptance, that final and most elusive stage.
Only two weeks prior, he had made a New Year's resolution to try to get into better spiritual shape. A banker on a business trip in New York City, Fred was among the 155 people to board a jet airliner at LaGuardia Airport bound for Charlotte, N.C., his hometown. Ninety seconds after takeoff, the jet would hit a flock of geese, the engines would explode, and the plane would lose power. Everything would become eerily quiet. Fred would cinch his seatbelt. His left hand would clutch the armrest, his heart would race.
He would think about his family -- his wife and four young children. He would think about God, about death, and about trust.
"Prepare for impact," the pilot would say over the PA system.
You've heard about the crash landing of Flight 1549 in the Hudson River. You've seen the images of a US Airways Airbus floating gently down the frigid Hudson, like some sort of breaching, people-friendly aquatic creature. Amid all the news of economic collapse, of families in peril, of a reckoning at hand for a culture off its rocker, this plane, these passengers, its pilot, all served as a sort of national restorative balm.
The story made you gulp hard, smile and be thankful. Thankful for what? For good news. For a hero in the pilot, Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger. Thankful in the knowledge that in the panic-filled moments when the plane lurched to a stop, it wasn't every man and woman for himself or herself. Thankful that humanity's better nature was on display. Thankful the incident wasn't terrorist-related, but geese-related.
Thankful that a guy like Fred Berretta, 41, a friend of mine, would live to walk through the door of his home once again after a highly peculiar business trip, hug his wife and children, and make sure they knew he loved them, that he always had and that he always will.
"I heard the impact," he told me, "then the explosion, and the plane shook violently. I could see smoke coming out of the left engine. You could smell the jet fuel."
He heard cries from the cabin.
"I knew that the only thing I could do was pray," he said.
These were the other things he knew: This sleek, high performance jet airliner had suddenly and irreversibly become a 73-ton glider that would touch down somewhere, somehow, very soon, at a high speed, and the chances of survival were almost nil.
He thought about his family, how hard his death would be on them. Indeed, that was the most painful part of the experience for him, his concern for them.
He thought about the very thing all these years that stood in the way of growing deeper in his faith and finding meaning in life. It came down to this: trust. He didn't have much. Ever. He had once fancied himself among the titans of commerce. He once trusted that money would bring security and peace of mind. This flight wasn't the thing that taught him otherwise. Rather, it was the previous year. The bottom fell out of the economy, and with it, much of his savings of the last 20 years.
By Christmas 2008, he knew the only security in the world is the security found in God, which led to his New Year's resolution; which led him to close his eyes in seat 16A, his trajectory heavenward, and reflect upon how God really must be real. Then, moments later, facing death in a matter of seconds, he trusted, truly, for the first time. Everything made sense.
He hunched over in his seat. He prayed for God's mercy. Then he prayed two Hail Marys and one Our Father.
He made it halfway though a prayer to St. Michael, when the plane hit the water, came to a stop and bobbed up and down like a rubber ducky in a bathtub.
"Under the most precarious situations I could ever imagine," says Fred, "God taught me what true peace is all about -- that it's found in accepting God's will. That we must try our best in this life, but not sweat the small stuff, and hand control over to God."
In seat 16A, Fred Berretta prepared for death. But, as it turns out, he was also preparing himself for life.
One year ago, on Jan. 15, as he was preparing to die, Fred Berretta embraced acceptance, that final and most elusive stage.
Only two weeks prior, he had made a New Year's resolution to try to get into better spiritual shape. A banker on a business trip in New York City, Fred was among the 155 people to board a jet airliner at LaGuardia Airport bound for Charlotte, N.C., his hometown. Ninety seconds after takeoff, the jet would hit a flock of geese, the engines would explode, and the plane would lose power. Everything would become eerily quiet. Fred would cinch his seatbelt. His left hand would clutch the armrest, his heart would race.
He would think about his family -- his wife and four young children. He would think about God, about death, and about trust.
"Prepare for impact," the pilot would say over the PA system.
You've heard about the crash landing of Flight 1549 in the Hudson River. You've seen the images of a US Airways Airbus floating gently down the frigid Hudson, like some sort of breaching, people-friendly aquatic creature. Amid all the news of economic collapse, of families in peril, of a reckoning at hand for a culture off its rocker, this plane, these passengers, its pilot, all served as a sort of national restorative balm.
The story made you gulp hard, smile and be thankful. Thankful for what? For good news. For a hero in the pilot, Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger. Thankful in the knowledge that in the panic-filled moments when the plane lurched to a stop, it wasn't every man and woman for himself or herself. Thankful that humanity's better nature was on display. Thankful the incident wasn't terrorist-related, but geese-related.
Thankful that a guy like Fred Berretta, 41, a friend of mine, would live to walk through the door of his home once again after a highly peculiar business trip, hug his wife and children, and make sure they knew he loved them, that he always had and that he always will.
"I heard the impact," he told me, "then the explosion, and the plane shook violently. I could see smoke coming out of the left engine. You could smell the jet fuel."
He heard cries from the cabin.
"I knew that the only thing I could do was pray," he said.
These were the other things he knew: This sleek, high performance jet airliner had suddenly and irreversibly become a 73-ton glider that would touch down somewhere, somehow, very soon, at a high speed, and the chances of survival were almost nil.
He thought about his family, how hard his death would be on them. Indeed, that was the most painful part of the experience for him, his concern for them.
He thought about the very thing all these years that stood in the way of growing deeper in his faith and finding meaning in life. It came down to this: trust. He didn't have much. Ever. He had once fancied himself among the titans of commerce. He once trusted that money would bring security and peace of mind. This flight wasn't the thing that taught him otherwise. Rather, it was the previous year. The bottom fell out of the economy, and with it, much of his savings of the last 20 years.
By Christmas 2008, he knew the only security in the world is the security found in God, which led to his New Year's resolution; which led him to close his eyes in seat 16A, his trajectory heavenward, and reflect upon how God really must be real. Then, moments later, facing death in a matter of seconds, he trusted, truly, for the first time. Everything made sense.
He hunched over in his seat. He prayed for God's mercy. Then he prayed two Hail Marys and one Our Father.
He made it halfway though a prayer to St. Michael, when the plane hit the water, came to a stop and bobbed up and down like a rubber ducky in a bathtub.
"Under the most precarious situations I could ever imagine," says Fred, "God taught me what true peace is all about -- that it's found in accepting God's will. That we must try our best in this life, but not sweat the small stuff, and hand control over to God."
In seat 16A, Fred Berretta prepared for death. But, as it turns out, he was also preparing himself for life.
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