When I started flying in February 1972, life suddenly became complex. There was a lot to learn! For example:

Aerodynamics—I knew my little trainer wouldn’t fall out of the sky, but still, how did ¾ ton of metal, gas, and people stay up there? And how did I get up there in the first place? Once there, how did I steer, climb, or descend? Or, more importantly, how did I land so I could walk away, leaving the airplane capable of further flight?

Navigation—How did I go where I wanted to go? Or, a more basic question: How did I figure out where I was right then?

Weather—What did all the funny little marks scattered across a map mean? And how did they tell me whether it was going to rain, snow, or blow today? How did I know what all those clouds outside were going to do an hour from then?

Regulations—The sky’s a whole lot of empty space, so how could there be so many rules? The law books weighed as much as the others and were not as straightforward.

My log book filled as I progressed from student to a licensed private pilot. I had arrived at last! But then, while the ink was still wet, they said, “Now you need to earn an instrument rating. That’ll make you a real pilot.”

“Instrument rating? Real pilot? All right,” I said, and the game started again. Flying inside bumpy clouds meant keeping instrument needles centered, with the right numbers, at the right time and speed, at the right altitude, with enough gas in the tanks, and, oh yeah, knowing what part of this good Earth lay hidden beneath me. Basic aerodynamics seemed simpler, but the complexity of everything else doubled. One night, during an intense training week, I lay in bed, only half asleep. In a half-dream, I waited for the tower to issue a takeoff clearance for complete sleep. Then, I realized I needed neither clearance nor permission to do so.

After a career as a commercial pilot, flight instructor, single and multi-engine air taxi pilot, forest service air attack pilot, and finally, a missionary pilot in the Amazon jungle and Andes mountains, I felt I’d become a competent airman in my niche of the aviation world. Until, that is, our flight club installed modern avionics in our fleet.

Typically, advancing up to more complex aircraft requires mastering a thick manual of systems, airspeeds, weights, and procedures, followed by appropriate written, oral, and flight exams. And it used to be, once you knew the airplane itself, you were good to go.

21st-century technology changed that. Yes, you still must master the machine. But that’s become the starting point. Instead of flying airplanes with radios installed, we’re flying computers with wings—think tablets and smartphones on steroids. The new devices do amazing things, making some aspects of aerial navigation and power plant management so simple it almost feels like cheating. But, to reap the new devices’ benefits, you have to learn their language. And that’s not simple.

So, before I could fly an aircraft I’d accumulated hundreds of hours in, I had to receive a separate checkout on the new radios. I flew it again a few days after the checkout, marveling at the bells and whistles but still feeling out of step with the airplane itself.

Today, I spent another hour and a half in the cockpit, reviewing touch-screen button functions and procedures. I never left the hangar. Instead, I plugged in an auxiliary power unit to run the electronics without starting the engine. Glad I took the time. I can now speak simple sentences.

Fortunately, some aspects of life differ. For example, the more time I spend in God’s Word (the Bible), the more its apparent complexity clears. Its life application grows richer. Its meaning becomes more profound. As C.S. Lewis says at the end of his book The Last Battle, the farther in we go, the larger it gets—deeper and bigger, deeper and bigger, as far as we have the courage to plumb.

So, as a newbie in some aspect of life, how did you react the last time you realized you had to start at the bottom—again?