My Story.

It was a warm August day in British Columbia when my best friend, Guðni Kristinnson, came to visit from Iceland. Guðni, a pilot, had a unique presence, quickly becoming popular among my friends. On this day, Guðni, myself, and two high school friends, Elliot and Leah, set out on a flight to Squamish, BC. We planned to fly through the breathtaking Indian Arm valley, surrounded by majestic mountains and waterfalls. However, as we rounded a bend, clouds filled the valley ahead, forcing us to reconsider our route. 

Rather than turning back, we decided to try a different valley, hoping it would lead us to Squamish. It was a split-second decision that changed everything. The new valley narrowed quickly, trapping us between towering mountains. With no room to turn around, Guðni tried to climb above the ridgeline, but the weight of the plane and strong headwinds made it impossible. Desperate, he attempted a slow turn. The anxiety on board was palpable, and as Guðni began the maneuver, the engine stalled. The last thing I remember was the sound of trees scraping the wings.

Then came the moment, we crashed going 120 km/h into the depth of the valley.

Elliot and Leah, sitting in the back, remained conscious after the crash and managed to get out of the wreckage. Elliot, showing incredible bravery, came back to check on Guðni and me. The scene was perilous, with gasoline everywhere, but he risked his life to shake me awake. My first words were, "My seatbelt, my seatbelt!" I was suffocating, pinned by the weight of the seat and the belt. With Elliot's help, I freed myself, and though my femur was severely broken, I climbed onto his back as he carried me to safety. 

Sadly, Guðni’s story was not as hopeful. Elliot went back and found that he had passed away.

We waited for five and a half hours in the wilderness, as shock began to set in. The adrenaline that had kept me going faded, and I shivered uncontrollably, wondering if we would survive. Just when hope seemed to run out, we heard the sound of rescue helicopters. Search and rescue teams descended like angels, and I was flown to Royal Columbian Hospital, where doctors operated on me immediately. When I woke up, they delivered the devastating news: my leg was badly broken, and I might walk with a limp for the rest of my life. 

In the two weeks I stayed in the hospital, I was flooded with love and encouragement from family and friends visiting. They encouraged me to stay strong, and reminded me, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!”

During my two weeks in the hospital, family and friends visited, offering love and encouragement. Their words lifted my spirits, but one particular moment left a lasting impact. A nurse named Betsy pointed to a flower someone had brought and asked if I knew how long it took to grow. When I said no.

She said, “It takes seven years. You see, the seed needs seven hard cold winters in order to grow a strong enough stem to finally blossom this beautiful flower. And it is true in life as well. We need the cold hard winters of life to cultivate in us the character needed to blossom into the person we’ve been created to be.” Then she said, “Dave, remember this difficult season of your life can be one that cultivates in you strength, but your attitude towards your pain will determine the final result.”

I now know what she meant. All these years later, I look back and realize she was right. Pain can be a gift, a tool given to us for refinement, a true agent for growth.

Betsy’s wisdom stayed with me. She helped me see that the plane crash, as traumatic as it was, had the potential to shape me into a stronger, more resilient person. I realized that pain could be a gift—a tool for growth and refinement. Rather than letting the tragedy define me, I began to view it as a catalyst for becoming the person I was meant to be.