Power and Protection! CLTP 17
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 12

(Recommended reading for 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults' discretion.)
DFO. Excerpts from "Guideposts", "The Guideposts Treasury of Faith," "When Angels Appear" by Hope Macdonald, and "It Must Have Been an Angel" by Marjorie Lewis Lloyd.
(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)

The Dream
--By Rose Lear
         My son did not come home that foggy night. Justin, almost 18, had gone out in his car with a friend on Friday evening, August 6, 1993. At first I hadn't worried. He was a good boy, a careful driver and always dependable. He knew he had to be up early Saturday morning for his summer job cleaning pools.
         I went to bed thinking I'd hear Justin arrive home any minute. As always, I prayed for him, his 20-year-old brother, Strider, and my older sister, Mary Beth, who lives with us.
         I awoke Saturday morning with a start. Justin! I hadn't heard him come in. Heart pounding, I jumped out of bed and checked his room. Then I rushed into the kitchen, where Mary Beth was making coffee.
         "Justin didn't come home!" I announced.
         The percolator trembled in Mary Beth's hand. She loved her nephews dearly. "Where do you suppose he is?"
         "I don't know. He always calls, even if he's delayed a short time."
         "Maybe he stayed over at his friend's house," Mary Beth suggested.
         I hurried to the phone on the desk in the kitchen. No, said his friend, Justin had dropped him off last night and headed home to White Bluff from Nashville. That was only about a 20-minute drive.
         I started calling everyone he knew, including his high-school football teammates. Fall practice was starting Monday and that was all Justin had talked about recently. As I dialled number after number, I kept glancing out the window, expecting his car to come up the drive. I longed to see his golden retriever, Hunter, bound up to him; to hear Justin explain: "Hi, Mom. I'm sorry; I forgot to call you...."
         I slumped back after speaking with the last of his friends. No one knew anything. The thoughts I'd been pushing away finally broke through.
He's lying dead somewhere. Someone's hijacked his car. He's been kidnapped.
         I dialled our pastor, Mack Hannah of Harpeth Heights Baptist Church, who said he'd get a prayer chain going immediately. Then I dialled the Dickson County 1 Sheriff's Department. Two deputies came right out.
         "He's a little more than six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes, 225 pounds," I told them. "A big guy, plays football." How could I describe his smile that lit up the room? His wonderful sense of humour?
         "Car? A blue 1980 MGB convertible."
         As the older deputy wrote down the information, he commented on the unusually heavy fog the night before. Then, as they turned to leave, he patted my shoulder. "We'll do our best to find him, Ma'am."
         Mary Beth brought me a cup of coffee. "Now don't give up, Rose," she urged. "We're going to find him."
         I smiled. That was Mary Beth. Always trying to be optimistic.
         But not Strider. He was beside himself with worry. "I can't just sit here, Mom," he said. Instead of going to work, he drove off to look for his brother. Mary Beth went with him.
         I sat at the desk staring at the phone. It rang. But it was our pastor reporting that the entire congregation was praying. Then concerned friends called, asking what they could do to help. I laid my head on my arms. I was divorced from Justin's father; my boys meant everything to me. "God," I prayed, "please don't take my boy. If You need someone, take me instead."
         I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Mary Beth; she was back from the search.
         At my pleading look she shook her head, but tried to cheer me. "Rose," she said, "I just know Justin will be all right." She picked up A.J., our cat, who had been pacing around my chair, and cradled her in her arms. "God has His eye on Justin," she said. I gratefully squeezed her hand.
         All the rest of the day the phone kept ringing. The sheriff's office reported that authorities in two counties were combing the area, checking every route Justin might have taken, and that the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation had been notified. It seemed Justin had vanished from the earth.
         Mary Beth and I sat up long after midnight praying and dozing restlessly. About 5:30 a.m. I woke up and opened my eyes to find Mary Beth sitting bolt upright in a chair. "Rose," she said, "a verse--Matthew 7:7--has come to me. `Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it will be opened to you.' That means we can't give up; we have to keep praying."
         Finally, in utter exhaustion, we both went to bed to try to get some sleep. I awoke to sunlight flooding the room and went downstairs to resume my vigil. I sat looking at family pictures. There was Justin as a toddler holding a football. Next to that was a photo of Justin as a first grader 2 who stroked my face and told me, "I have the prettiest mommy." I couldn't hold back the tears.
         I heard a step on the stairs and looked up. Mary Beth stood there, a strange expression on her face.
         "Rose, I know you're going to think I'm crazy," she said, "but I know--I know where Justin is."
         I stared at her. What on earth was she talking about?
         She sat down across from me. "Justin came to me in a dream," she said. "I could hear him calling to me. It was so plain and clear. He told me where he was. He said, `I can't move and I need help. Come and get me. I'm between Highway 100 and the railroad tracks. Please hurry--I'm hurt.'" Her voice was quivering. "I told him we'd be right there."
         Strider, who overheard us, rushed into the room. "I know just where that spot is! On Old Harding Road."
         I looked at the two of them numbly. Both were clearly exhausted and willing to grasp at anything. "If it will make you feel better, Mary Beth," I said wearily, "you and Strider go look. I'll stay here by the phone."
         After they left, the minutes ticked by. I could only stare at my son's picture in his football uniform, wondering if I'd ever see his number 61 on the field again.
         The phone rang. I barely had the strength to pick up the receiver.
         "Rose..."
         It was Mary Beth, almost shouting with excitement.
         "Rose,
we found him!"
         I listened in stunned disbelief as Mary Beth continued breathlessly: "Justin was exactly where he told me he was in my dream--between Highway 100 and the railroad tracks! In the fog, his car went off the curve there and down that steep embankment into a ravine. It was impossible to see him from the highway. He was unconscious and paramedics 3 took him to the hospital."
         I hurried to Justin's bedside. He had been wearing his seat belt, but the impact of the accident had thrown him out of the car. He was in a coma 4, badly scorched from lying unconscious in the sun all Saturday. The doctors said he would have lived only hours if he hadn't been found. Even so, they gave little hope for his recovery.
         For five days I sat by Justin's bedside, praying as he remained in a coma. His friends and teammates came in to cheer him on, hold his hand, and pray for him.
         And then on the sixth day he finally opened his eyes. I leaned close to hear his first precious words; and when they came I had to smile. "I'm ... hungry," he said.
         "What can I get you?"
         "Two ... big ... fat chili dogs." I almost laughed out loud. I knew then that my son would recover.
         After being hospitalised, followed by a few months of therapy, Justin was back in high school in January 1994. He remembers nothing about that terrible night, only that the fog had suddenly become so thick he couldn't see.
         But all of us who prayed for Justin believe that God had answered our prayers & wonderfully fulfilled His promise, "Ask, and it will be given you" and "seek, and you will find."

Angels Watching over Me...
From the book
When Angels Appear, by Hope MacDonald
         One hot summer day in 1900, in a dirt-farming community of Northern Georgia, four-year-old Ernest and his mother went out to gather the straw from their large broom-straw farm. As far as Ernest could see, there was acre after acre of broom-straw, growing high above his head. He and his mother worked side by side all morning.
         Soon the sun began getting hotter and Ernest became very hungry. He looked up from his work to complain to his mother, but she wasn't there. He began to run up and down the aisles of broom-straw crying her name, but he couldn't find her any place. By now he was very frightened because he was lost and didn't know how to find his way out of the tall lanes of straw. He sat down on the dirt and began to cry. Suddenly he saw his mother. She was holding out her hand to him and saying in a gentle voice, "Come, let's go home."
         When he arrived at the house, Ernest's worried mother was standing on the porch.
         "Where have you been, son?" she asked.
         Through his dried tears, Ernest replied, "I was lost until you came and got me."
         "I didn't come and get you," his mother said in surprise. "I couldn't find you and thought you had wandered back to the house."


         It was a brilliant sunny day on the silver beach of Hawaii. The air was fragrant with the smell of salt and the freshness of the sea. The golden sunlight brushed the earth with warm rays of contentment. David worked with a Christian organization. He and his family were spending a day at the beach. Later in the afternoon, his wife and children returned home; but David decided to stay longer. About three o'clock, the surf started to pick up and a strong undertow 5 developed. The ocean became rough and dark, and the waves rose to a foreboding 6 ten feet. People hurried out of the water as quickly as possible.
         David was enjoying a restful sleep on the beach under his umbrella when suddenly he was awakened and was instantly alert. Wondering why he was so wide awake, he looked toward the water and saw a young mother running frantically into the crashing waves. Out beyond the impact zone of the crashing waves, David saw a tiny head bobbing up and down. He raced into the water to help. Since he was an expert body-surfer and had spent much time in the water, he knew exactly what to do. When he reached the young mother and her little girl, they were struggling helplessly. He had never seen a more terrified look than the one he saw in the eyes of the young mother. He grabbed the little girl and hollered that he would be right back for the young mother. There was no way he could have handled both of them in those thundering waves and against the powerful undertow.
         About this time, Ruth, who worked with the same mission group as David, was also spending time at the beach with her son who was playing in the sand.
Someone nearby frantically pointed out the drowning woman to Ruth and yelled, "That lady needs help, but I can't swim!"
         With vigorous strokes, Ruth began to swim out toward the sinking woman. When she reached the lady, the combination of high waves and the pull of the undertow made the mother too heavy for Ruth to help. After much struggling and gasping for air, it began to look as if both of them would go under. Just then a man in red swimming trunks suddenly appeared behind them. He seemed to come out of nowhere, because seconds earlier no one was around. With strong arms, he picked the lady up and carried her to shore. He gently put her down on the sand, and Ruth, after swimming to shore, helped her the rest of the way up the beach. She turned around to thank the man for his help, but he was nowhere in sight. No one on the beach could find the man in the red swimming trunks.
         Later, David and Ruth drove the lady and her little girl home. The mother thanked them again and again for saving their lives. She mentioned how strong and secure the arms were that picked her up and how safe she felt as the man brought her to shore. When they reached her house she went inside to get a picture her little girl had drawn in Sunday school the previous Sunday. She wanted to show it to David and Ruth. It was a picture of a mother and child, drawn in blue crayon, standing on the beach. And there was a man in red swimming trunks with them, holding their hands. Last Sunday when the mother had asked her little girl who the people in the picture were, she had answered, "Why it's you and me, Mommie, and the Man in the red swimming suit is Jesus."

         Sharon and Doug already had three dear children, ages fourteen, twelve, and ten; and Sharon, at age forty, was expecting the birth of their fourth child any day. The nine months of waiting had been a special time for the entire family. They looked forward to the arrival of the new baby with great anticipation.
         Sharon and Doug liked to walk one or two miles each day. One afternoon they were walking down a hill near home, watching their dog run alongside them with great excitement. Suddenly, Sharon turned her foot on a stone in the street and fell down. But instead of falling to the ground and rolling down the hill, she felt as though Someone had lifted her up and laid her down gently on the street. It was the most graceful, relaxed feeling she had ever experienced. When Doug turned to catch her, she was already stretched out full length beside his feet. The fall could have been quite harmful to the expectant mother and unborn child. Yet a feeling of total quietness filled her, and not one part of her or the baby was hurt.
         Sharon believes her Guardian Angel laid her down ever so gently in the street that day, in special care for her and the new little life within her.
         "For He shall give His Angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone" (Psalm 91:12).

         Susan was a little ten-year-old girl who lived in North Carolina and attended a Christian day school. There she learned how to pray and was daily nurtured in her faith in Jesus. She came to believe that as His child, she was special in His sight.
         One day when she was out in the front yard playing ball with her friends, the ball rolled across the street. Without thinking, Susan went running after it as fast as she could and didn't see the oncoming car. Suddenly she felt herself being lifted, held in midair, and placed gently on the other side of the street in a neighbour's yard. The car screeched to a halt, and the man and woman ran out to see if Susan was hurt. Everyone was stunned when they discovered she was totally unharmed. The couple told all the people who gathered on the lawn that they had seen Susan lifted into the air and over their car.
         Although Susan is now a young married woman with children of her own, she has never forgotten that warm summer day when God sent a Guardian Angel to rescue her.

I Believe in Prayer
By April Pronk
         On Thursday morning, November 10, 1983, my husband, Adriann, and I had just seen our three children off to school when the phone rang. When Adriann answered, his face lit up. He was a commercial diver whose firm, Ocean Tec, did a lot of work for offshore oil-drilling rigs. And in this economy, diving jobs were few and far between.
         But then, as he listened, Adriann's shoulders sagged. He turned to me, his eyes troubled.
         "It's one of those jobs," he groaned.
         Sometime during the night, an Amoco crew boat had sunk in a storm in the Gulf of Mexico off Matagorda Island. It appeared there were no survivors. The vessel had been located and Adriann and his divers had to leave to locate and recover the bodies.
         I reached over and took Adriann's hand. I knew that this was a job he didn't want to do.
         I sat at the table swallowing hard, not knowing what to say. He was supposed to do things like underwater repairs and inspections of ships and rigs. Most of his work dealt with things like clearing propellers entangled with ropes. It shouldn't have anything to do with things like this. Still, here it was.
         But it had to be done. Families wanted the bodies of their loved ones back.
Someone had to do it.
         I stood in the bedroom door watching Adriann hastily pack a small bag of clothes. How I loved this tall, slim man whom I'd met when he was a first mate 7 and I a galley cook on the
Regina Maris, a cruise boat sailing to Tahiti. We were married a year later and settled near the Texas coast, where Adriann could work in the sea by day and be home at night.
         In the bedroom, he zipped his bag shut, looked up at me with deep, sad eyes, stepped over and hugged me. Then he headed out to drive the four-man team he supervised to a waiting oil-company helicopter.
         At the door of his truck I whispered, "I'll pray for you!"
         He waved over his shoulder, climbed into the cab and was gone.
         I turned and slowly walked back into the house. Adriann was not particularly "religious", even though I'd accepted Jesus as a 17-year-old.
         And so, as the roar of Adriann's truck disappeared, I began to pray for him. I prayed that Adriann would not find any dead bodies, that the current had carried them away.
+ + +
         Out on the Gulf, the 166-foot
Laverne Hebert lay upside down at a 45-degree angle in 60 feet of water, her stern 8 on the bottom and bow 9 tip protruding.
Working from another crew boat moored 10 near it, Adriann and a fellow diver put on their heavy diving helmets. Then, trailing air and communication lines, they slipped into the water. Its colour deepened from emerald to dark green to a cold black as they descended. Switching on diving flashlights, they felt their way along the slippery upside-down hull 11.
+ + +
         The children came home from school. "Where is Daddy?" they asked.
         "Working," was all I told them. I didn't tell them I had been praying for him off and on since he'd left.
         In the evening the children and I watched television together. There was news about the
Laverne Hebert. "Divers are still searching the wreck," the announcer said.
         Our nine-year-old daughter put two and two together. "Is Daddy one of the divers?" she asked, and I had to admit that he was. Then all three youngsters were full of questions. "Are the people on the boat going to die?" asked five-year-old Antares.
         "Will Daddy find them?" piped his four-year-old brother, Orion.
         I searched for an answer, not wanting to let them think about their father out there searching for dead bodies. Then, as I groped, it was as if words were given to me. "Well, sometimes an air pocket forms in a boat under water," I ventured, "and people can live in it for awhile." In my heart I knew there was a very slim chance of this happening. Mostly I said it to comfort the children, yet they grabbed this straw. They began to talk as though there were actually survivors breathing in an air pocket down there.
Taken aback, I said, "Now kids, the chances of that happening are very small." But they were not to be discouraged, and right then and there they asked if we could talk to God about it.        Three little heads bowed as together they prayed, "Dear God, help Daddy find somebody alive in that boat." I found myself praying with them.
+ + +
         Twilight deepened the Gulf sky as Adriann and his team wearily climbed up the crew boat's ladder from their final dive that Thursday. They had combed the
Laverne Hebert and found no bodies. They noted that one of the ship's life rafts had been released; it looked as though the crew had escaped, only to be lost in the storm.
+ + +
         After I put the children to bed, I went into the living room and sank into a rocking chair and stared into the darkness. Would God hear the prayers of an apprehensive wife and her three trusting children? Then, as I slowly rocked, I remembered a verse from Matthew in which Jesus said, "And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive" (Mat.21:22).
         I sat bolt upright.
Believing. That was all He asked, just that we ask and believe.
        
Father, I prayed, I believe ... and I put my belief in Your Hands even though it is weak. Then I went to bed. But the same nagging thought kept me awake ... with God all things are possible (Mat.19:26). Finally, when I did sleep, I was very restless. Again and again, I awakened. Each time I prayed for Adriann's well-being, that he wouldn't find anyone dead.
+ + +
         On Friday morning, Adriann stood on the deck of the crew boat, inhaling the sharp salt air, watching the black tip of the
Laverne Hebert slowly rise and fall in the incoming swells. He was glad the time had come to leave and return home. But something was bothering him. An odd feeling he couldn't define.
         Then, suddenly, he told his crew, "Let's go down once more."
With his breath echoing hollowly inside his diving helmet, Adriann descended into the cold water. He edged his way into the ship's upside-down wheelhouse 12, carefully watching that his airhose was not cut by the jagged glass. He worried about the vessel shifting; it could stifle 13 his air and block his escape. In the cold blackness, Adriann worked his way through the floating debris. When he'd push a box one way, another box and mattress would float in. His hand touched something soft, sodden 14; he winced 15.--Only a pillow.
         Adriann pushed his way into the last cabin. Now in the dark it was difficult even knowing which way was up. A blanket floated in his way and, as he grabbed at it, the glow from his flashlight went out to a hanging object in the corner of the cabin. A foot.
A human foot!
         Adriann felt a sickness surging within him.
         "Found something," he muttered into his radio. And, steeling himself, he reached forward to grasp the limb.
+ + +
         Late Friday afternoon Adriann's truck crunched into our driveway. The children fairly flew out of the house to welcome him. I trailed behind. Adriann picked up Orion and whirled him around, his eyes alight with that big white smile of his. Over coffee in the kitchen, Adriann told us what happened.
         "When I touched that foot it
moved!" he said. "I almost dropped my flashlight. Then I thought it was a reflex action, so I reached out and touched it again.
         "I tell you," he continued, looking up at me knowingly, "it was all I could do to reach out and touch that foot again. But when I did, the foot pulled back. Then I knew the man had to be alive.
         "So I pushed myself up beside him and my helmet broke through the water into a pocket of air. You can imagine the look in that guy's eyes when he saw me.
         "We got him out of there and, up on the crew boat, he told us what had happened. He had been trapped in his cabin when the boat capsized and found himself in that air pocket." Adriann said that the man he found was Hayes Bonvillian Junior, the ship's cook.
         Then Adriann looked at me and his voice lowered. "You know, he told me that he started praying that someone would find him. And in those 40 hours he waited in that air pocket he never gave up hope."
         The children were dancing up and down. Our daughter was squealing, "We
knew it, we knew it!"
         Indeed, the Lord had answered the prayers of three children who believed, just as He'd answered the prayers of a man who refused to give up believing. And in the answer to my own prayers, I had learned how not to underestimate the power of my Lord. I had made Him too small. God heard me, and He chose to answer in His Own special way.

From the Fifth Dimension
         During World War II, Marilyn's husband, Jim, was in the infantry 16 in Germany. Those were difficult days for everyone around the World, but it was especially hard to be a young bride living daily in fear of getting one of those dreaded telegrams from the United States government, notifying you of a loved one's death or other bad news.
         One morning as Marilyn was getting ready for work, the doorbell rang. No one came calling that early, so with a heart pounding with fear she went to the door. At the curb she saw an official government car, and standing on the porch was a man who handed her a telegram. She tore it open and read the grim words, "We regret to inform you that your husband is missing in action." That was all. No mention of his whereabouts or how it had happened.
         As the weeks dragged into months, Marilyn learned to live with fragmented 17 emotions. Was her husband dead, or was he suffering the misery of prison camp? One night as she was praying for Jim, she began to cry in agony.
         "Oh, Lord," she sobbed, "it's so hard not knowing if my husband is dead or alive! If I could just have some definite word, I really believe I could stand anything."
         Instantly the room was filled with a vivid presence. Someone was standing beside her. She knew it--she felt it--and she was terrified. She started to turn around, but a voice pierced the silence.
         "Do not be afraid, and do not turn around."
         To her surprise, the fear dissolved and a quietness settled around her. She remained in the presence of this splendid Being while waves of peace washed over her like a mist of silver spray.
         Then a voice as clear as crystal said, "You will hear on April 13." And then the angelic Being was gone.
         Two weeks later, on April 13, Marilyn received a postcard written in her husband's handwriting saying he was safe. He had been captured in the savage Battle of the Bulge, where hundreds of soldiers lost their lives, and was a prisoner of war in Germany. When the war was over, Jim returned home safely.

         "Lean on the Lord," friends in our prayer group urged us. "His shoulders are broad."
         At the time, my husband and I needed a shoulder to lean on. Our business had turned sour, our savings were dwindling, and at retirement age, we were scrounging for jobs. In the midst of this, my 94-year-old mother experienced a mental and physical breakdown. She was living with my sister in southwestern Arizona, and required 24-hour care, and now it looked as if she needed to be put into a nursing home.
         One Sunday night I was praying about our problems as I drove home alone from my sister's after a week spent helping with Mom's care. The narrow two-lane road was heavy with traffic coming from Las Vegas, the headlights blinding my eyes. Three different times I came over hills to find a driver coming at me in my lane, and I had to pull off the side of the road to avoid a collision. I don't mind telling you I was thankful that
those broad shoulders 18 on the side of the road were there.
         Two weeks later I made the same trip with my husband. In full daylight we reached the road just north of Kingman, Arizona. "This was the stretch," I told him, "where I had to pull off."
         We looked and looked, and grew quieter and quieter.
         For that entire 40-mile section of Highway 93, cactus and scrub grew close to the roadside. There were
no shoulders--only His to lean on.--Helene Lewis Coffer

Inferno
--By Melinda C. Skaar
         For weeks during the spring of 1988, I had been having an odd sense of foreboding--as if something terrible was about to happen in Los Angeles. Strangely, others felt it too. Some thought it might be an earthquake, the Big One. But I dismissed that as silly speculation 19.
         My real concern the night of May 4, 1988, was the special report I was trying to complete for the company president to present to the board of directors. As a new financial analyst with First Interstate Bank of California, I wanted it to be right.
         My eyes burned from weariness. I took a moment to turn from the glare of my computer screen to gaze out the window of our 37th-floor office in downtown L.A. From this height I could see sparkling diamond city lights scattered over the black velvet landscape. It was a far cry from my hometown of Kenyon, Minnesota. Mom and Dad had visited me, two weeks earlier. Mom became anxious looking out the window, wondering how I could work up so high. I shook my head, remembering how concerned they were for my safety in the "big city." I remember when Mom said:
         "We're always praying for you, Melinda," when I kissed her good-bye at the airport.
         "Oh, Mom," I protested. "You worry about me too much."
         "Well, Honey," she sighed, looking at me the way she did when I first left home for college, "your father and I can't always be there to help you, but we know the Lord can. Ever since you were a little girl, we've always asked God to cover you with His protection, wherever you are."
         I smiled at my reflection in the office window. Here I was, soon to be 29, with a business degree in finance, making my own way in the World, yet Mom and Dad still thought of me as their little girl. Well, they could pray if they wished; that was their way. But I had been on my own for some time, and you'd think they'd know by now that I had my life pretty well in hand.
         A chair scraped on the far side of the office. Stephen Okasas, a tall, thin 31-year-old assistant vice president, was also working late.
At 9:45 p.m. I picked up the phone to call my boyfriend. His answering machine clicked on. "Hi, Sweetheart," I said, "I expect to finish about 10:30. See you soon."
         I began putting my papers away at 10:30, when the phone rang in the outer lobby. I went out to pick it up.
         "We believe there is a fire in the building," cautioned a security guard. "Please tell everyone on your floor to leave the building."
         I put down the phone and called to Stephen. I was interrupted by the security loudspeaker.
         "Attention ... attention," crackled the public-address speaker. "We believe there is a fire on the sixteenth floor. Please evacuate the building."
         We looked at each other. "Maybe it's just a false alarm and they want to be careful," suggested Stephen. The preceding month we'd had earthquake drills, learning how to take cover under a desk and then move to the core of the building for protection. But I had never been through a fire drill here. Anyway, with all of the safety systems in the tower, what could go wrong?
The speaker rasped the warning again. "Well," I said with a nervous laugh, "I was leaving anyway."
         "I'll get my things," Steve said, then: "Do you smell smoke?"
         I did. Overhead I saw black tendrils curling down from open ceiling panels, where workers were about to install a fire-sprinkler system.
         Shocked, we hurried to the lobby. Dark fumes seeped through the elevator door cracks. I rushed to one of the stairwells and opened the door. Hot black smoke billowed out. Steve hurried to another stairwell and found the same.
         Now I could dimly hear the wail of sirens far below.
         Steve and I talked about options: dash down 37 floors of fire, or climb 25 stories to the roof? But the stairwells were becoming smoke-filled chimneys. We didn't dare try the elevators. We were trapped.
         We groped our way into the nearest office. Steve called security to let them know where we were. The fluorescent ceiling lights began to appear grey behind the gathering smoke. My eyes burned and my nose started to run. I grabbed papers and cardboard and tried to keep the smoke out by blocking the ceiling holes. I stuffed my business-suit jacket under the door, but smoke still seeped in.
         We called security again, then the fire department. After a while I decided to call again. This time the telephone line was dead.
         The fumes thickened and my throat became parched; I found myself breathing faster to get more oxygen. We needed air. Steve, over six feet tall, picked up a table and smashed it against the window. It bounced off like a basketball.
         We tried to hurl an old metal-encased computer, filing cabinet and coat rack against the glass. It was like throwing cardboard boxes at a steel wall.   
         A piercing roar shook the glass; a helicopter hurtled past outside and hovered a dozen floors above. I grabbed my coat and waved my arms back and forth over my head, thinking that the people in the helicopter must certainly see me.
         Stephen tried to pry away the weather stripping from the window with sharp, pointed scissors. I joined in. But our attempts to remove the glass were futile. The offices were hot and suffocating. By now the thick smoke had dulled the lights to a greyish black. At least an hour had passed since the security guard had called. Why wasn't anyone coming?
         My nose and eyes were streaming from the noxious 20 vapours. Desperate, we retreated to a glass-enclosed copier room that had visibly cleaner air. Once inside, I noticed another door. Pushing it open, we stumbled into a small room neither of us had seen before. It contained a refrigerator, a water cooler and floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets.
         Grabbing the big empty plastic water bottles, we frantically dug holes in their bottoms with scissors, and stuffed paper towels over the ends as filters. But we could only get a few breaths out of each. We took turns sticking our heads into the cabinets, and then the refrigerator, greedily gulping its icy air. But soon this room too filled with smoke.
         We lay prostrate 21, feeling the heat increasing. With my ear to the floor, I could hear the eerie 22 whine of one elevator rising and falling. I became drowsy and fought to remain awake. Steve mumbled, then didn't answer any more.
         I heard a helicopter outside. If I could get back to the office window, a helicopter pilot might see me, I thought. Struggling to my knees, I crawled back out into the thick, coiling smoke. The smoke had now filled the office area. Somehow, a certain underlying strength seemed to support me, giving me the will to keep on fighting, to keep on going. As I reached the office window, a helicopter thundered past and flew away. I stood and waved, but all I saw in the smoky glass was a dim reflection of a thin girl with soot-covered face, hand raised weakly, wearing a white blouse that had turned black.
         Dizzy, sick, gasping shallow breaths, I slumped in a chair.
         "Oh, Dad, Mom," I sighed, "your daughter sure needs help."
         I could hear a helicopter in the distance, but it was too far away. I was exhausted and losing hope. It was 3:00 a.m., four and a half hours since we first smelled smoke. The sounds below seemed to lessen.
         I felt completely alone, forgotten and insignificant. My lungs begged for oxygen. I ached from panting. I became very sad, thinking about my family and how they would feel when they got the news, and about the birthday I would never celebrate the coming Sunday.
         Then I began to sense that odd strength again, and I knew the reason: Dad and Mom's prayers. I wasn't all alone. God was with me--like a protective covering. I felt an urgency to keep on fighting, to keep on struggling to live.
         I blacked out, then came to in a frightening silence. I struggled to focus on reality, fighting to stay alive. Was Steve all right?
         Then I saw them ... men in dirty yellow coats. I pointed weakly to the little room where Steve lay.
         Ripping down draperies to use as stretchers, our rescuers carried us down 37 floors. As they slid me into the ambulance, I caught a glimpse of the dawning sky above and thanked God for being with me.
         So many providential things happened that night. Stephen and I survived five and a half hours in all that smoke. The refrigerator room had helped keep us alive--a room we had not known was there. Some people will say we were just lucky. I know it was more than that. There was a special support through those five and a half hours, and it could come only through prayer.
         Sunday, May 8, was a special day. It was Mother's Day and my 29th birthday, and I had recovered enough to call my folks from the hospital. I had to tell them they had given me the greatest gift any parent can give a child. Mom answered the phone.
         "Thank you, Mom," I cried. "Thank you and Dad for praying for me. Please don't ever stop."

Terror at 2000 Feet
--By Phillip Taylor
         As a flight mechanic for a small aviation company, I don't usually pilot any of the light planes that buzz around me every weekday. But on April 9, 1992, my boss said she needed me to fly a man to the airport in Little Rock, so he could make a connecting flight that afternoon.
         I hurried to wash the grease off my hands, glad the other pilot was busy. It was fine weather for flying, and I needed a break. The day so far had been pretty dull.
         My passenger was a tall, husky man, dressed in jeans, tan blazer and cowboy boots. A white cowboy hat was pulled low over his forehead. He turned down my offer to carry his bags to our plane, a blue-and-white Cessna. Tossing them in the rear, he climbed in next to me on the passenger/copilot's side and pushed his seat all the way back to accommodate his long legs.
         I briefed him on emergency procedures as he fastened his seat belt, then pulled my seat forward as far as it would go and placed a small cushion behind my back so that I could reach the controls comfortably. I put on my headset, adjusted my seat belt, and cranked up the engine. "Pine Bluff traffic, this is Cessna 62112, runway 17, departing north to Little Rock," I radioed to area traffic control.
         In minutes we were flying over the Arkansas River at 2000 feet. With the smooth rush of the wind and comfortingly steady throb of the engine, I started to relax. I love flying. I always get the feeling I can reach out and almost touch God's hand.
         Things were different on the ground: routine job and routine life. I was 28 and single, still living with my parents. I really enjoyed my church volunteer work--but occasionally I wondered what it would be like to have some excitement in my life.
         "Hey!" my passenger called.
         I felt a tap on my shoulder. I lifted my headset to free my right ear.
         "Take your headset all the way off!"
         Surprised, I tried to turn my head, but suddenly something cold and hard was jammed behind my right ear. I could see it out of the corner of my eye.
A gun.
         My legs went stiff with fear. I forced myself to keep my feet on the rudder controls. My hands shook as I fumbled with my headset. Impatient, the gunman snatched it off.
         "I need this plane," he said. "I'm taking over."
         From the guy's instructions, I could tell he knew a thing or two about flying. He told me to turn off the two communication radios and the transponder 23; that would prevent air traffic controllers from getting a fix on the plane's location.
         "Stick out your right hand," he commanded. As soon as I obeyed, he put a rope with slipknots in it over my wrist. "Raise your right leg and put your left arm underneath."
         Now I could see it for sure, a gun pointed at my head. I lifted my leg and awkwardly poked my arm under it. Immediately the rope looped around my left wrist and was yanked tight. Sweat drenched my clothes.
         He slipped some kind of black bag over my head. I tried to pull away, but I was tied securely. When I tried to raise my hands to free myself, the cords dug into my wrists and pain shot through my legs and back.
         The cloth was thick and hot, and in the blackness my fear was replaced by a nauseating sense of despair. I felt a tug on my seat belt, then heard its click of release. The guy pulled back my seat so that it was even with the door. Was he going to push me out of the plane?
         "If you're going to throw me out of the plane, will you please shoot me first?" My throat was parched but I shouted through the fabric, my lips pressing against the tight cloth.
         No answer. Then an emotionless voice. "You do what I tell you," my captor said, "and I'll drop you off at Carlisle."
         The words didn't exactly comfort me. I'd lost track of time, but by air the small town of Carlisle was only minutes from Little Rock. I had to stay calm and think.
         Up here I get the feeling I can reach out and almost touch God's hand. Well, do it, Phil. Do it now.
         In my mind I started through the Twenty-third Psalm.
The Lord is my Shepherd.... When I got to the "valley of the shadow of death," I paused for a specific prayer: Dear God, I'm not in a valley; I'm in the sky. But I am in the shadow of death, and I do fear evil. Please help me. I tried to shift my body to ease the pain in my back and legs, but it only increased. So I gave in. I let my head sag as far as it would go and let my mind drift in the darkness. The engine droned; the plane shifted in light turbulence 24.
         Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies...
         The engine noise faded. A feeling of peace came over me.
         "How much fuel do we have?" The hijacker's voice cut through the black cloth like the blade of a knife.
         "About four hours' worth," I said.
         It was the beginning of a volley of questions. I considered not answering, but then I remembered the way that cold gun barrel had felt behind my ear. Besides, I now felt a sense of assurance and quiet: If I didn't panic again, with the Lord's help, I could handle this. The hijacker asked me about the aircraft's speed, the weather in other parts of Arkansas, and finally, the Carlisle airport. "They got a north-to-south runway?" I told him yes and that there was a shop and small agriculture supply store at the south end.
         "So the north end is deserted?"
         I swallowed hard before I answered yes. But then came the question that completely startled me: "How do you land a Cessna?"
         So that's why he hasn't killed me. The guy had hijacked a plane that he wasn't sure how to land! I took a deep breath and began talking him down, surprised that my voice was so steady. But I was okay; somehow I was okay.
         We bumped down on the runway, the plane bounced along the concrete and slowed, then began to taxi. The plane stopped. The hijacker's hand came down on my arm, fumbled at the slipknots that tied me. He was freeing my wrists! There was another surge of pain as the circulation returned to my arms and legs.
         I felt something being placed in my lap--my headset. The cushion too was yanked from behind my back and placed in my lap.
         "You know, you're taking all this well," the man said.
         "I'm trusting the Lord to take care of me," I told him.
         "Keep doing that," the man said, so softly I could barely hear him.
         Suddenly the bag was stripped from my head. "Look to the left," the man snapped. I blinked in the sudden rush of sunlight.
         "You're going to have a great story to tell your grandkids," he said. "And just think of the hangar 25 talk. Now get out. And don't look back."
         I worked my aching fingers onto the latch and tumbled out the door. Clutching my headset and cushion, I ran from the plane toward the open field at the end of the runway, wondering if a shot would ring out, hitting me in the back at any second.
         Instead, the sound of a taxiing plane filled my ears. As the Cessna gained speed, it lifted off the ground with a roar. In moments, it cleared the runway and soared away.
         I stopped running and stood for a moment, my heartbeat racing as I savoured the breeze on my damp face. Apparently I had given the hijacker enough information to enable him to pilot the plane on his own. "I'm alive!" I shouted. "Thank You, God!"
         I turned and walked toward the south end of the runway. I recalled my thoughts earlier in the day about my dull routine and laughed. How sweet that routine was going to be now!
         Some time later the hijacker was apprehended and sent to prison after commandeering 26 yet another plane. It turned out he'd been on furlough 27 from an institution where he was being held for conspiracy to commit fraud and murder, and I guess he couldn't resist the chance to make a break for it.
         As for me, I'm thankful for every minute of life. Because 2000 feet off the ground I reached out and touched God's hand. And He was
there.

Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions, some of which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading every story, but you may choose those which apply and are helpful.
1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.--What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
8. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?

Glossary for Young Readers
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story and does not cover every meaning of the word.)

1 county: in the U.S., an administrative subdivision of a state
2 first grader: child attending first year of school in U.S. school system (usually 6 years old)
3 paramedics: emergency medical workers trained to give emergency care or assist doctors
4 coma: prolonged unconsciousness caused by either injury or disease
5 undertow: any strong current below the surface of the water, moving in a direction different from that of the surface current
6 foreboding: a dark sense of impending danger or evil
7 first mate: a deck officer of a merchant (trading) ship, just below the captain in rank
8 stern: the rear part of a ship
9 bow: the front part of a ship
10 moored: when a ship is kept in place by means of ropes or chains fastened to the shore or to anchors
11 hull: the body or framework of the ship
12 wheelhouse: a small, en-closed place on a ship to shelter the steering wheel & those who steer the ship
13 stifle: smother; suffocate
14 sodden: soaked through; saturated
15 winced: flinched slightly
16 infantry: soldiers who are trained, equipped & organized to fight on foot
17 fragmented: not complete; broken into many pieces
18 shoulders: the edges of the road, often unpaved
19 speculation: a guess, conclusion or opinion
20 noxious: very harmful; poisonous
21 prostrate: lying flat, face downward
22 eerie: suggestive of the supernatural; mysterious
23 transponder: an electronic device that can receive a radar or other signal and automatically transmit a response
24 turbulence: varying sudden changes & fluctuations in the air currents & atmosphere interrupting the flow of wind and causing disturbance
25 hangar: a building to house airplanes
26 commandeering: taking by force or in a forceful manner
27 furlough: a leave of absence; a vacation