I flew in an airplane for the first time in about 10 years this week, and I was surprisingly calm.

When I was a child, my sister and I would fly to Florida to see my grandparents or to Michigan to see my father, and I was never afraid of flying. In fact, it was fun and exciting.

And then something happened that changed my outlook on flight.

When I was 10 years old, a friend of my mother's took me to ride on a glider. We drove from Knoxville to a tiny airport near Etowah, arriving before sunrise -- the first souls on the field.

Others soon began arriving and, eventually, an airplane landed on the little dirt runway. Two men got out, and the pilot asked them for pointers on how to take off from the little strip. They said something like, "Go as fast as you can and pull up before you get to the tree line."

Then we all stood there with our hands in our pockets and watched the guy go. And go. And go on down toward the tree line.

"He needs to pull up," someone said as the plane approached the end of the track. And at the last second, he did.

But it was too late. One wing clipped a tree and sent the little craft tumbling through timber and power lines to crash upside down in the field across the country road.

We all jumped into a Jeep and sped to the rescue, and thankfully, although there were serious injuries, nobody died in the crash. I believe there were two women also in the plane.

As you can imagine, I was ready to get in the car and scurry back to Knoxville. I figured they would close the airport due to safety concerns.

Imagine my surprise when business continued as if nothing had happened. To my consternation, I was still expected to go up in a glider. Despite my protests, my mother's friend forced me to follow through and make the flight.

I was scared to death, but I did it.

When I had safely cleared the tree line, been released from the tow rope, and was soaring with the hawks with my hand on the stick, I felt free.

It was an awesome experience.

I completely forgot my fear -- until it was time to come back down. Obviously, we made it, but the fear from that day will stick with me always.

Oddly enough, this story doesn't stop there.

Almost exactly 10 years later, I was in Fairfield, Calif., facing a big hill (or a small mountain; distances are hard to judge out West), when a small red biplane roared straight up from behind the hill in a tight corkscrew.

I pointed it out to my friend, saying something along the lines of, "Hey, look, that guy's doing tricks."

We both watched as the plane stalled, rolled backward, then nose-dived into the top of the rise, exploding on impact.

We jumped out of the car and began to run toward the crash before we realized it was farther away than we thought, and anyway, nobody could have lived through that fireball.

Unfortunately, some children were standing near us and also witnessed the accident. We sent them running home yelling "fire," and airplanes soon began to circle. Fire trucks eventually made their way up a dirt road to put out the flames.

We later saw on the news that a man, his wife and their 6-year-old son had died in the explosion, which occurred just after takeoff from a small airfield on the other side of the rise. There were no survivors.

So there you have it -- I've witnessed two plane crashes, and it should be no surprise that flying bothers me somewhat. Especially on takeoff and landing.

That's why I was so surprised when, this time, I didn't get very nervous.

I'm not really sure what happened, but I believe it has something to do with my being more accepting of the fact that one day I've got to go. Just like everyone else.

No matter how much I worry about it, it's in God's hands, and I now know in my heart that a better place awaits me on the other side.

I have heard before that a strong faith replaces fear, and that may be true. My faith has never been strong enough to speak through experience.

I have learned, however, that having guts doesn't necessarily mean we are fearless. It means we go forward despite our fears. Even my small amount of faith can give me the courage I need to go on, so long as I remember that I'm not running the show.

I weighed a pound heavier after my one-day trip to "The Hamptons." More about that next week.

-- John Philleo is editor of the Times-Gazette. He can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 218, or by e-mail at editor@t-g.com. This column is scheduled to print every Friday.