Power and Protection!--Part 16 DFO CLTP 25
--True-Life Stories of Gods Help in Crisis!
(Recommended reading for 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults discretion.)
DFO. Stories courtesy of Guideposts; The Guideposts Trilogy; Where Miracles Happen by Joan Wester Anderson; Angel Letters by Sophy Burnham, and Beyond Reason--How Miracles Can Change Your Life, by Pat Robertson. (Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)
Table of Contents:
The Wire Cage
1
General Direction
3
Miracle at the Mall
5
The Dream
5
Power to Harness the Weather
6
Rescues on the Road
7
God Calling
10
Discussion Questions
12
Glossary for Young Readers
12
The Wire Cage
By Claude L. Fly
On August 7, 1970, five men strode into the laboratory where I was working as an American agricultural scientist in Montevideo, Uruguay. Im with the police, one of them said, flashing a badge. Which one of you is Doctor Fly?
I am, I said.
He pocketed the badge and suddenly drew out a revolver. Come with us!
In the alley someone tore off my glasses and tied a piece of cloth over my eyes. Hands were stripping off my watch, going through my pockets. I felt rope wrapping around my wrists and ankles, then a scratchy cloth covering me from head to foot, like a sack. I was lifted off my feet and laid on a cold metal surface.
I heard an engine roar, and then the terrible bouncing began. Up and down, side to side I banged, my head striking the hard floor. I tried to raise myself, but hands held me down. Obviously this was the back of a truck; and from the squeal of tires, we were taking the twisting, pitted [1] streets of Montevideo far too fast.
After a while, choking clouds of dust seeped through the sack. We were out of the city then, on an unpaved road. I do not know how long it was before I was carried into a building, where the sack was pulled off, the ropes cut from my feet and hands and the blindfold untied.
I stood blinking at the circle of masked faces. One of the figures stooped and lifted a trap door in the floor of the room. On order from behind, I was let down three and a half feet to a crawl space under the house. The door thumped shut above me, and I was alone in that chilly dark place. I groped along a clammy wall until my hand touched metal. It was a small cot and on it was a blanket. I lay down and covered myself as well as I could, teeth chattering in the cold. Above, I heard the clatter of feet on the floor.
No doubt I was the victim of a kidnapping. But it had happened so fast my brain still refused to take it in. Two hours before, my wife Miriam and I had been sipping coffee in our Montevideo apartment, discussing what wed have for dinner. And nownow I began to recall stories of terrorism in the newspapers, kidnappings, murders. Butwell, I just shook my head at the idea of myself as a political figure. In none of the 22 countries on all six continents where I had worked as a soils expert, had I had the least interest in local politics. Growing more food, that was my mission. Issues of right and left, class and race I left to those who understood such things.
Inside the dank little cellar, the air was raw and cold, for there in Uruguay, below the equator, it was winter. Id had pneumonia a few months earlier and now I began coughing helplessly. A guard came and wrapped a thin blanket around me and left. The coughing continued through the night, and the next day I was moved upstairs. Then on the third day I was taken to a new prisona wire cage.
It was four by six and a half feet, just big enough to permit a narrow cot and an 18-inch walkway. The floor was slick concrete. Heat was provided by a small, fanlike electric heater. Into that cage I was pushed, and the door was locked behind me.
I was totally shut off from daylight, and with no clock or radio or any other contact with the world outside, I soon lost track of time. I could never tell whether it was morning or evening, and so time went endlessly on and on, as if all the hours were part of one day.
There was a small gooseneck lamp to break the darkness, and I could see the passing of time in the rotation of my guards. The guards always wore small cloth sacks over their faces to mask their identity, and it gave me an eerie feeling, living this close to people without knowing them.
I soon discovered, of course, that they were members of the Tupamaro party, named for the Indian chieftain who had tried to drive the Spanish from South America two centuries earlier. I learned that these people were attempting to overthrow a government they considered oppressive, and that taking political hostages was one of their methods. They told me the condition for my freedom, which was the release of 150 political prisoners held by the Uruguay government.
As the days passed, the closeness of those wire walls all around me began to gnaw at my reason. I would catch myself on the brink of violent action. How could I keep my balance?
By work, I decided. By establishing a routine. I begged my guards for books in English. They brought me all kinds of books, from biographies of Lincoln and Woodrow Wilson to histories of South America, also pen and paper. I mapped out a daily program of exercise, reading, writing and prayer.
One day one of the Tupamaro leadersan English-speaking Uruguayan about 40 years old, agreed to bring me the Book I most wanted: the New Testament.
In its pages I rediscovered the bulwark I needed. As I bore into the Bible, passages popped out at me, as if the Lord were speaking directly to me.
Count it all joy, I read from the first chapter of James, when ye fall into divers temptations: knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience....
And in Hebrews: The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me....
Through the pages of this little Book, I was gaining strength and courage to face the ordealand possible deaththat still lay ahead.
Twice daily Id take time to pray desperately, asking that Gods will be done and that my wife, my son John and daughter Rita be given the fortitude to withstand this tribulation. And I prayed for the forgiveness of my captors.
Soon, I noticed a change come over my kidnappers. At first the guards had accused me of being a spy. They read aloud from a soil manual I had written and made angry comments as they claimed it contained secret information that I had gathered for the CIA. They taunted me about Yankee imperialism, calling the U.S. racist and oppressive, bent on dominating South America.
They described to me conditions in Uruguay which they had dedicated their lives to changing: runaway inflation (300 percent in six years), poverty and hunger for the majority, power and property controlled by the few. They showed me books and other information on conditions in South America, and I repeatedly told them that I grieved over them as much as they, that these were precisely the reasons I had come to South America.
And gradually, almost reluctantly it seemed, they began to believe. To believe that I had come out of concern and not greed, to believe that my love and prayers for them were real. The masks never came off, but my guards and I developed a bond, a trust.
One day they brought me a picture, cut from a newspaper, showing my daughter Rita, her husband Dennis and their two children! Three children! In Ritas arms was a tiny baby. I knew there must have been an article or something else that had been published with the photo and I pleaded with the guards to let me see it.
One of the guards finally read it to me, translating it into English. It was a letter from Rita to me. She had sent it to every newspaper in Uruguay. I wrote an answer which my guards promised to mail, and for long afterwards that word from home sang in my heart.
As time passed, however, the elation faded and I came to feel more and more frustrated inside the wire walls of my cage. It seemed an eternity since I had first been brought here. I renewed my prayers for the working out of Gods will, for relief from my torment.
Then one day while pacing about fitfully, I suddenly felt as if a gigantic weight had been dropped on my chest. I clutched desperately at the wire of my cell. I opened my mouth for breath but none came. Pain stabbed my arms, my shoulders. The pressure was tightening like a vise.
I knew it must be a heart attack! I slipped down to my knees, then managed to pull myself over to my cot, yelling for the guards to help me. One guard came and helped me onto the cot; another went for a doctor.
For what seemed many days I lay on the little cot unable so much as to lift my head, cared for by doctors and nurses the rebels had summoned. They brought in oxygen tanks and cardiograph equipment and gave me frequent injections. Their records were as painstaking as any hospitals.
Then a tremendous noise startled me from my semicoma [2]. Brick dust flew about me, stinging my eyes and nose: They were pounding a hole in the basement wall. Hands lifted me onto a stretcher.
Please! I begged. My papers! My Bible! My voice was so weak the masked head had to bend closer to hear. As he laid the water-spotted notes and Bible beside me, he spoke close to my ear.
I want you to know, Doctor Fly, that some of us believe in Jesus, as you do.
Moments later a womans hands slipped something around my neck. Take thisfor good luck, she whispered. Weakly I lifted it in my hand: It was a small gold cross. God was surely in that place; I have never felt His presence so strong.
A blindfold covered my eyes, and another jarring, endless ride began. At last the shaking stopped and the stretcher was lifted down. I heard the roar of the motor speeding away, footsteps running towards me. The blindfold was pulled away and for the first time in seven months I looked up into natural lighta million stars twinkling in the sky aboveand the outline of a hospital aglow in the night.
The Tupamaros had freed me, had brought me here where I could receive hospital care.
Then the Words of Second Corinthians, a passage Id read again and again in my cage, came back:
... that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:7-9).
* * *
General Direction
By William N. Lindemann
Beside me throughout my life, I have always felt a guiding presence. When I am walking in the wild, as I have done since childhood, this presence guides me. I have humorously referred to it as General Direction.
I was raised in the outdoors. I spent ten years in scouting. I wandered the woods alone all my life, often preferring the company of animals to humans. I hunted and fished, paddled and back-packed, wherever I felt a need or desire to go. So it was not unusual one cold February morning for me to go for a walk outside. I bundled up in a down parka, boots, hat, and mittens and set out into the thin, sub-zero day.
As I left our low-rent student apartment, I mentioned I was off, and no one asked where. I walked down to the shore of a nearby lake, about a mile from home. This lake is nearly twenty-five miles in circumference, nine miles long, and about five miles wide. From where I stood overlooking the bumpy hillocks of ice and snow, I estimated it would take me four hours to reach the middle and return.
The lake had been frozen for two months, and the ice was quite thick. People skied, played and fished on it daily. Indeed, that day I could see colorful figures off in the distance. I created a line-of-sight target for myself and stomped off into the snow. It was tiring work, and not having been prepared for such a large undertaking, I didnt bring water with me. My thirst increased and I started to eat the snow.
As I reached the turning point, the sky began to cloud over. The cloud cover was unusually low and ominously [3] dark; heavy storm clouds filled the air with large, beautiful, entrancing flakes. The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and I could no longer see anyone on the ice.
Soon I found it difficult to see ahead, and I had to shield my eyes from the stinging snow. I could barely even see my hand in front of my face. I had to lean heavily into the wind. I have no idea how long I walked on this way. I began to feel cold and drew my hood down tight over my hat. I withdrew my arms from the sleeves up into the chest space. I knew the dangers of hypothermia [4] well.
Stumbling on in the blizzard, I started to fall. At first I figured I needed my arms to balance. Then I realized I could see nothing but white; I had become snow-blind and was confused. When I fell, sometimes I could not stand again. I couldnt differentiate up and down. Better to stay down and crawl, I thought. Occasionally deep, thunderous groans rolled from beneath the surface of the ice. I began calling out for help, only to hear my voice fall dead in the storm before me.
What if I had been going in circles? I stretched out on the frozen lake, reaching forward, digging in my hands, pulling my knees up and arching my back, inching forward, wormlike. Please, dear God, help me find my way. Depression began to take hold. I stopped prone [5] in the snow, tears freezing on my cheeks.
Then loud and clear, as if directly before me, came the grand, sonorous [6] foghorn of the rescue station only blocks from my house. Be careful, said a voice, the breakwater [7] is open and deep. I moved on again, snail-like, across the bumpy whiteness. After a short while I heard the lapping of gentle waves, closer and closer. Be careful, stay to the right, climb the concrete wall when you reach it. I heard these things and knew them at the same time; they were sensible, logical, and, most of all reassuring, like trusted counsel.
Soon the waves were very close, and I removed my glove to feel for wetness near the edge of the ice. My hands were numb, but not without sensation. I found the edge and began moving around to the right, still on my belly, toward the retaining wall. It was beginning to get dark, and, looking up, I faintly saw the light of the rescue station. I felt my way up through the deeply drifting snow to the door. The next thing I felt was being half pulled and half carried inside. A man with dark hair and a beard was there with hot coffee brewing.
After asking me what I was doing, he said he thought he had seen me or someone out on the lake coming in this direction. Thinking the foghorn might help, he set it off. Good timing, I responded. When I asked him why he was there in the middle of winter, he said he was finishing some research. When I finished my coffee, I decided to go. We said goodbye, and I walked home.
At home I discovered I had been gone for over seven hours and everyone was worried about me. I told them the whole story. My roommate, Dana, said there was no way the rescue station would have been open. The taste of coffee was still in my mouth. They thought it was a good story, but given my appearance and physical condition they knew there was some truth in it.
The next day, after the storm, in the light of day, I walked back to the rescue building. It was locked up tight, and its concrete-bunker design looked imposing. The door was nearly buried in the drift, which showed no signs of anyone having traveled there. I dug through the drift to the door and read a sign: CLOSED FOR WINTER, with inclusive dates from fall to spring. I called the county sheriffs department and was told no one had access during the winter and no one had been there the day before. I called the university and was surprised to hear the same story. To this day I have no earthly explanation for my rescue, but this experience cemented my belief in a Higher Power and the guardians that watch over us.
* * *
Miracle at the Mall
By Joan Wester Anderson
Beth and Margie, two teenage sisters, were shopping in the large enclosed mall. But by the time they were ready to leave, it was dark. Standing at the mall exit, they could hardly see the outline of their car, the only one left in that section of the dimly lit parking lot.
The girls were nervous as they waited, hoping a few customers would come along so they could all walk out together. Both were aware of the current crime wave. There had been muggings and rapes in area shopping malls, and they remembered their fathers warning: Dont stay out too late!
Dads going to be furious, Beth said.
Then wed better get goingnow! Margie shifted her packages, pushed open the door, and walked as fast as she could. Beth followed, glancing from side to side. Street traffic had subsided, but the lot seemed a bit too quiet.
They had made it! Beth shoved the key into the car lock, got in, and reached across to open Margies door. Just then the girls heard the sound of running feet behind them. When Margie turned around, her heart almost stopped. Racing toward them were two ominous-looking men.
Youre not going anywhere! one shouted.
Margie screamed. Terrified, she scrambled inside, and both girls locked their doors, just in time.
With shaking fingers, Beth turned on the cars ignition switch. Nothing happened. She did it again, and again. But only the sound of the key clicked in the silence. They had no power!
Beth, try again! Margie was frantic. The men were pulling the door handles, pushing at the windows.
I cant! Beth cried. It wont start!
The girls knew there were only seconds of safety remaining. Quickly, they joined hands in prayer.
Dear God, Margie pleaded, give us a miracle, in the Name of Jesus!
Once more, Beth turned the key. This time the engine roared to life. She shifted into gear and raced out of the parking lot, leaving the men behind.
The girls wept all the way home, shocked and relieved at the same time. They stumbled into the safety of their house, and told their father what had happened. He held them both close.
Youre safethats the main thing, he soothed them, But you could have been hurt or even killed. Dont ever put yourself in that kind of situation again!
We wont, Margie promised, wiping her eyes.
Her father was frowning. Its strange, though. The car has never failed to start. Ill check it out.
Puzzled, he wandered down to the garage, and raised the cars hood to look at the starter. And in one stunned glance, he realized Who had brought his daughters safely home.
There was no battery in the car.
* * *
The Dream
By Sharon Crisafulli
Good night, Jason. I leaned down and gently kissed my eight-year-old sons forehead as he snuggled under his blanket. He was wearing his favorite baseball pajamas. His hair, always a little too long, fanned out over the pillow. His eyes were already closed when I turned to leave. But as I was pulling the door shut, he called to me. Mom? I just had a dream.
I returned to Jasons bedside. Honey, you havent even been to sleep yet. How could you have had a dream?
I dont know, Mom. It just came to me right after I said my prayers. His brown eyes held a serious expression. I was in school, at my desk, he said in a strange, matter-of-fact tone. All of a sudden, I fell over onto the floor. People were staring at me. I was dead.
I sat with Jason until he fell asleep. His dream was disturbing. It seemed more than just a childs imagination.
Several times in my life Id had similar experiences. I remember suddenly knowing my grandmother would die. Though she appeared to be perfectly healthy, she left us three days later.
I went to bed wondering what Jasons dream was all about. Was it some kind of warning?
By the following week, however, the incident had been pushed to the back of my mind. Our home in Merritt Island, Florida, was a busy place, and I had plenty of other things to think aboutJasons school activities and caring for Nicole, his lively three-year-old sister, for example.
Then one night a week later, I sat up abruptly in bed, wide awake. It was after midnight, and Jack, my husband, was sleeping soundly. For a moment I thought it was he who had woken me. But before I could give it another thought, I was overwhelmed with the need to prayto pray for Jason.
As I eased out of bed, I felt tears streaming down my face. I crept into his room and gathered him into my arms. I cradled his warm body against mine as I prayed. I rocked him as I had when he was a baby. Jason slept soundly through it all.
Then it was over. The need to pray ended as suddenly as it had begun.
The next night it happened againthe sudden need to pray for Jason. And again the night after that.
There was a time in my life when I would have felt silly praying the way I did. But now I knew it was time to pray like this, and so I prayed.
By the third morning, my midnight prayers were becoming as predictable as the other routines of my life.
As usual, I spent the few minutes before the children woke sipping coffee and savoring the quiet. Nicole was usually the first to rise. But this morning she was still snoozing even after Jason was up and dressed for school.
It was gloomy and overcast. As I looked out the window, I was seized by a sense of sadness. Even as I made Jasons breakfast, my heart grew heavier by the moment.
I walked Jason to the end of our driveway. Right on time and with a whoosh of air brakes, the school bus pulled to a stop across the street, its red lights flashing.
Jason and I both looked up and down the busy highway. I gave him a quick kiss and he was on his way.
He never made it to the bus. His left foot had barely touched the pavement when a speeding station wagon came from nowhere and slammed into Jason, hurling his body 15 feet into the air. He came down hard, headfirst.
It all happened so fast. Now, there he was, lying in the middle of the highway.
No, I whispered. Then I lifted my head and cried, No, no, Lord, You cant let him die!
A crowd gathered. They were all staring, horror-struck.
Somebody call an ambulance! I was amazed at the sudden control in my voice. And get my husband. Hes working in the orange grove down the road.
I bent over Jason and prayed aloud, Dear God, I know Youve raised people from the dead. Please raise up my son!
I dont know how many people were in the crowd of onlookers, yet in their midst I suddenly felt a distinct presence. I glanced up and found myself looking straight into the eyes of a bearded man standing a few feet away. He had reddish-brown hair and stood relaxed with both hands in his pockets. Though it was only a second or two, it seemed like an eternity before he spoke in a surprisingly soft voice: I have oxygen in my car.
Moments later the man knelt beside me and gently placed the mask over Jasons face. Almost instantly, Jason gasped and drew a long breath. Weeping with relief, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, Its okay, Son, just think about Jesus. Youre going to be okay.
But when I turned to thank the mysterious stranger, he was gone. And although the road was jammed in both directions, no one saw him leave.
Jason was in the hospital for months. His thigh and arm were broken. He had a severe concussion [8]. But amazingly, there was no permanent damage.
Now, ten years later, I still shudder when I think about what might have happened if I had not heeded those urges to pray, and pray hard. You see, I know that the bearded man who saved Jasons life wasnt just some passing motorist. He was part of something bigger. Something that involved Jasons dream. Something that required me waking three nights in a row to pray for Jason.
That mysterious man was part of a Heaven-directed rescue, and he was there in answer to my prayers.
* * *
Rescues on the Road
Compiled by Sophie Burnham
A few years ago Judith and her 9-year-old daughter were driving in Oklahoma City to pick up a new pair of glasses. The winds were very high that day, and there were a number of construction vehicles on the road.
Judith looked up and saw a flatbed truck loaded with 4 x 8 plywood boards. She was going west, and the truck was coming east in the other lane, coming toward her. Suddenly a strong gust of wind picked up three of the sheets of plywood and blew them off the truck. The boards flew through the air straight for Judiths car. The first board headed right for her windshield at an angle that would break the windshield and kill the occupants of the car. Her daughter screamed, raised her knees up to her chest, and instinctively tried to shield her face. Judith had time only to pray, Father! That one-word prayer was a prayer of faith, calling on the Name of the God she loved and trusted.
It was then that Judith saw the angel at the front of her car. He looked like a clean-cut, boy-next-door football player ... only larger and very muscular. He looked right into Judiths eyes with a knowing smile, almost as a human would do if he winked. There was an instantaneous communication between the angel and the driver, not in words, but heart-to-heart.
Then the angel put his hand up and skillfully deflected the first board. Next, with the skill of a basketball player blocking a shot, he knocked the second board over to the side of the road. The third board came toward the roof of the car. The angel tapped it. The board made a small dent in the roof of the car before sailing to the shoulder of the highway.
Judith said, Did you see that?
What? asked her daughter, still visibly shaken.
That angel! Did you see the angel?
She said, No, I didnt.
It was so thrilling, Judith explained. I saw those plywood boards coming toward us. I prayed and He sent an angel! Praise God!He preserved our lives!Judith Rowsey
*
In November 1985 I was traveling with my then ten-year-old daughter to my parents house, which is a one-and-a-half hours drive. Dusk was descending as we started up the four-lane mountain highway. Suddenly we heard a loud pop and the steering wheel shook as I guided the car off the road and onto the shoulder. Getting out of the car, I saw I had a flat tire and was in the middle of nowhere. Down the road about a mile I had seen a small craft store, so I decided we would back up until we came to the store and could hopefully get some help.
I got back in the car and suddenly, it seemed out of nowhere, a car pulled up, and a nice-looking young man got out (my daughter says he was dressed all in white). I showed him my flat tire, and he proceeded to get out the spare, jack, lug wrench, and change the tire. He was very quiet, except for telling me not to stand behind the car in case the jack might fall. Right after he said that the jack did fall, but he quickly finished.
I thanked him, offered money, but he refused to take any. I got in my car, he in his, and as I pulled out from the shoulder, my daughter turned around and said, Mom, hes gone. He had disappeared. Nowhere in sight. He had left as suddenly as he came.Meg Davis
*
One Saturday in May, I drove up the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to connect with I-95 north of Baltimore, Maryland, to attend a dog show. On the narrow stretch approaching the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, I suddenly got a flat tire, and I felt very apprehensive, since there was barely a cars width to stop on the right. I pulled over, not knowing what I would do. My vehicle was a large van and I hadnt used a jack in over twenty years. I secured a white towel in the window and slid out the passengers side, waiting for a policeman to stop and help.
After about a ten-minute wait, a station wagon stopped in front of me, and a rather pleasant-looking man about age twenty-five stepped out and asked if I needed help with my tire. I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but told him that he would get awfully dirty, and that if he would just get me to a telephone, I could call AAA, who would come and help. He replied by asking me where my jack and spare tire were.
Although this young man had on white shorts and a pale yellow polo shirt, he didnt hesitate to get down on his belly in the dirt to see where he could place the jack. He changed the tire very quickly for his size, and with no difficulty at all. As he stood up to replace the jack, I noticed that his clothes were still sparkling clean!
I thanked him again, smiling, and offered him the twenty-dollar bill in my wallet. He looked into my face and quietly said, Thats not necessary, got into his car and left.
Although this young man was perfectly ordinary-looking in his sports clothes and with average blond hair and blue eyes, there was still something disturbingly different about him, which left me with such a strong impression. When I returned home that evening, I told my family about my experience, and ended my story with, I guess that was my guardian angel. I really was helpless in a potentially dangerous situation, and I am convinced that that was why he appeared and helped.Barbara J. Anthony
*
In the summer of 1976 I had occasion to drive to Washington, D.C., where my two sisters lived. My stepsister, Betty, and her son, Bradley, who had just graduated from high school, lived in Lawton, Oklahoma. Neither had ever been to Washington, so I invited them to go along, and they accepted.
We drove east on Interstate 40 to its intersection with the highway that parallels the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. We had an early dinner and continued on heading east.
The interstate ended a few miles short of our exit. We found ourselves on a narrow, back country road that went around barns, made sharp turns that were poorly marked, and was pretty slow going. Eventually, though, it straightened out and I was soon doing about forty miles per hour. It was very dark, the dense evergreen woods contributing to the blackness. Brad was dozing in the backseat. Suddenly Betty yelled, Look out! A tall elderly man in a long gray overcoat (it was summer) stepped slowly to the side of the road. He motioned gravely to me to slow down. It was the motion of the hand with the fingers pointing down, not the Stop! or Come! gesture.
When the car was maybe ten yards away from him, the man just disappeared. He did not step back. He did not move at all. He simply was no longer there.
Where did he go? asked Brad, who had awakened at the first shout from his mother.
He isnt there! Betty said, as she looked out the back window for him. Meanwhile I was slowing with the idea of maybe backing up to look for him. But the road made one of those quick turns, and I slammed down hard on the brakes. There, where we would have plowed right into them at forty miles an hour, was a group of twenty or so deer. They were standing in the middle of the road. As my headlights struck them, they slowly ambled off to my left, one or two at a time.
I still have no explanation for the man in Virginia that night.John Causten Currey
*
We live in Louisiana, in the southern part of the U.S. The highways in south Louisiana run on both sides of the bayous [9].
One afternoon a few years ago my mother and I were going to visit my sister. We werent really in a big hurry, but we were both annoyed by the woman driving the big car in front of us. She reminded me of my third-grade teacher because she had dark hair pulled up in a bun.
What was annoying was that she kept riding her brakes. There was no reason for her to be braking so much. We were traveling about 45 mph, but she kept slowing down. We thought it was because she didnt know where she was going. I was getting aggravated, because every few minutes she would slow down more, until finally we were going only about 25 mph. Then, she almost came to a stop and turned right onto a long shell road [10].
I watched her for a moment, then looked back at the road. When I looked for her again, she was gone. She had disappeared really quickly for someone who was driving so slowly before.
We drove on, and I felt goose bumps start on the back of my neck. There in the curve of the road an eighteen-wheeler [11] had collided with a small car. The accident had just happened. People were just starting to come out of their houses to help the victims. The car and truck were in the ditch.
We stared in shock as we passed the accident. Neither of us spoke for a minute. All of a sudden I realized that we were on Highway 308, on the left side of the bayou Lafouche. The highway on the right side of the bayou is Highway 1. The woman couldnt possibly have turned right onto a shell road, because she would have been in the bayou. There are no shell roads on the right side, only bayou-side homes. Yet we both saw her. She definitely turned right!
I wanted to cry. Was she an angel? She slowed our speed down so much. If we had continued at the same speed, we probably would have been in that accident.Stephanie Boudreaux
*
About thirty years ago, I was a long-distance telephone operator for Southern Bell Telephone company in Daytona Beach, Florida. At the time, I worked the 2:30 to 10:30 P.M. shift. This particular night I got off work at ten. My old car, which had battery problems, was parked in front of the Southern Bell building on Highway U.S. 1.
That night was warm and absolutely still. Unfortunately, my car did not start. I got out, raised the hood, and removed the battery caps. I then struck a match and leaned over to look into the open cells. Someone had told me that if I would keep putting water in the battery, it would keep working and save me from having to buy a new one. I liked the idea, since money was scarce in those days.
As soon as I bent over, a puff of air blew the match out. Surprised, since there was no air moving whatsoever, I looked at nearby bushes and trees, but nothing was stirring in the least. Besides, I was sure it wasnt a stream of windit had been a specific puff from right over my shoulder. Puzzled, I tore off a second match, but as I went to light it, I heard the very definite command, Dont. I got the message and lit no more matches.
When I finally got the car to a service station and explained to the mechanic what Id done, he told me that I had done a very dangerous thing, because open batteries, if ignited, can easily explode. I believe an angel saved me. What else could it have been?Lorraine Buckles
*
Margaret Baucom of Shreveport, Louisiana, a private-duty nurse, had been caring for an elderly man for several nights in a row. Usually her shift ended about seven A.M., but the mans wife had awakened early one morning and told Margaret to go home and get some much-needed sleep. Margaret pulled away from the house in somewhat of a fog, so tired that she forgot to press her automatic door lock. She would avoid the high-speed interstate, she decided, yawning, and take a slower route home. It went through a tough section of town, but I assumed no one would be up at four A.M., she says.
Margaret was wrong. Drowsily, she drove down the seedy, poorly lit avenue, then stopped for a traffic light behind the only other car in view. Almost immediately, all four doors opened, and Margaret saw three young men get out of the three passenger seats. Slowly they started toward her, menacing, terrifying.
Margarets heart started to pound. Her doors were unlocked! And for the life of her, she couldnt remember where the automatic switch was!
Everything seemed to click into slow motion, as if a record or movie had been slowed down, Margaret says. Wildly she considered putting the car in reverse or speeding up to run over them. But she seemed paralyzed with fear. God, help me.... It was all Margaret could think to utter.
Instantly two enormous headlights shone right behind her, as if a huge eighteen-wheeler had pulled up inches from her rear bumper. The lights beamed through her car and seemed to flood the entire avenue with a radiant white glow. Margaret looked at the storefronts, the parking lot several yards ahead ... everything was bathed in brilliance. It was brighter than the pictures on television of the Gulf War bombing raids, she says.
Yet how could that be? For she had heard no truck approaching, no sound of an engine revving or shifting gears. And despite the powerful glare behind her, the night was completely hushed.
At that moment the driver emerged from the car in front of Margaret and started toward her too. Oh, God, please! she prayed. She was going to die here. She knew it. Then, incredibly, Margaret saw a look of shock, fear, terror replace the young mans threatening expression. He put his hands way up, almost in a gesture of apology toward the light, Margaret says, and backed up right into the car. The others jumped in, and the car sped off and squealed around the next corner.
Margaret slumped against the seat, almost weeping in relief. It had all happened so fast! Had it been a dream? But, no, the headlights were still there. Slowly she stepped on the gas and pulled away from the corner.
The twin beacons followed her, illuminating the night in a glow that was almost ... Heavenly. Margaret began to feel serene, protected, almost blessed. And yet there wasnt a sound behind her.
When she reached a forested area, she saw the lights silently turn off to the left and disappear. Just a few blocks more and she was safely home. I was shaking, and my husband knew something important had happened, Margaret remembers. She told him of her close call.
Where did you say the truck turned off? Bob asked.
Right at the woods. Margaret described the scene. Bob shook his head. It did, Bob, she insisted. I saw it go left.
There was a look of wonder on Bobs face. Margaret, nothing could turn there. Theres no road anywhere near the woods.
Margaret still wonders what the driver of the car saw behind her that night. But shell never forget the silent, steadfast beacons that came as a light unto her path.
*
Power to Harness the Weather
From Beyond Reason--How Miracles Can Change Your Life by Pat Robertson
Back in 1977, unusual weather conditions threatened to destroy the orange groves in Norvell Hayes part of Florida. The trees in the area were covered with icicles, and the orange growers knew from past experience that it was highly likely the cold would kill their crops.
But Norvell wasnt willing to accept the disaster that seemed inevitable. He believed God could save his trees, and he asked for a miracle.
I got in my car, drove to the orange grove, and parked along the highway, he said. I just looked at the grove and commanded the Devil to take his hands off the orange trees. Then I asked the Father, in Jesus name, to let His power come and hover around my fruit trees and not let them die.
A few weeks later, the sun began to shine again and things warmed up. Norvell still gets excited when he describes the result of his prayer. Fruit was developing on my trees! The twenty-five thousand orange trees on the property across the road, which was owned by another grower, were dead. But on my side of the road, it was different. It was as though a shield had been placed on my property line, which stopped the potentially damaging frost from crossing it. I didnt lose a tree!
* * *
God Calling
By Joan Wester Anderson
It had been Ken Gaubs goal to help those who were hurting. He became a traveling missionary and, with his family, conducted crusades not only throughout America but in many foreign countries.
But Ken felt discouraged one day in the 1970s as he, his wife, Barbara, and their children drove their two ministry buses down the highway just south of Dayton, Ohio. God, am I doing any good, traveling around like this, telling people about You? he wondered silently. Is this what You want me to do?
Hey, Dad, lets get some pizza! one of Kens sons suggested. Still lost in thought, Ken turned off at the next exit, where one sign after another advertised a wide variety of fast food. A sign, Ken mused, Lord forgive me, but I feel like thats what I need, God, a sign.
Kens son and daughter-in-law had already maneuvered the second bus into a pizza parlors parking lot, and they stood waiting as Ken pulled up. The rest of the family bounced down the steps, Ken sat staring into space.
Coming? Barbara asked.
Im not really hungry, Ken told her. Ill stay out here and stretch my legs.
Barbara followed the others into the restaurant, and Ken stepped outside, closed the bus doors, and looked around. Noticing a Dairy Queen, he strolled over, bought a soft drink, and ambled back, still pondering. He was exhausted. But were his doldrums [12] a sign of permanent burnout?
A persistent ringing broke Kens concentration. The jangle was coming from a pay telephone in a booth at the service station right next to the Dairy Queen. As Ken approached the booth, he looked to see if anyone in the station was coming to answer the phone. But the attendant continued his work, seemingly oblivious to the noise.
Why didnt someone answer it? Ken wondered, growing a little irritated. What if it was an emergency?
The insistent ringing went on. Ten rings. Fifteen....
Curiosity overcame Kens lethargy. Walking to the booth, he lifted the receiver. Hello?
Long-distance call for Ken Gaub, came the voice of the operator.
Ken was stunned. Youre crazy! he said. Then, realizing his rudeness, he tried to explain. This cant be! I was just walking down the road here, and the phone was ringing...
The operator ignored his ramblings. Is Ken Gaub there? she asked. I have a long-distance phone call for him.
Was this a joke? Automatically, Ken smoothed his hair for the Candid Camera [13] crew that must surely appear. But no one came. His family was eating pizza in a randomly selected restaurant just a few yards from where he stood. And no one else knew he was here.
I have a long-distance call for Ken Gaub, sir, the operator said again, obviously reaching the limits of her patience. Is he there or isnt he?
Operator, Im Ken Gaub, Ken said, still unable to make sense of it.
Are you sure? the operator asked, but just then, Ken heard another womans voice on the telephone.
Yes, thats him, Operator! she said. Mr. Gaub, Im Millie from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. You dont know me, but Im desperate. Please help me.
What can I do for you? Ken asked. The operator hung up. Millie began to weep, and Ken waited patiently for her to regain control. Finally she explained: I was about to kill myself, and I started to write a suicide note. Then I began to pray and tell God I really didnt want to do this. Through her desolation, Millie remembered seeing Ken on television. If she could just talk to that nice, kindly minister, the one with the understanding attitude....
I knew it was impossible because I didnt know how to reach you, Millie went on, calmer now. So I started to finish the note. And then some numbers came into my mind, and I wrote them down. She began to weep again. Silently Ken prayed for the wisdom to help her.
I looked at those numbers, Millie continued tearfully, and I thoughtwouldnt it be wonderful if I had a miracle from God, and He has given me Kens phone number? I cant believe Im talking to you. Are you in your office in California?
I dont have an office in California, Ken explained. Its in Yakima, Washington.
Then where are you? Millie asked, puzzled.
Ken was even more bewildered. Millie, dont you know? You made the call.
But I dont know what area this is. Millie had dialed the long-distance operator and given the numbers to her, making it a person-to-person call. And somehow she had found Ken in a parking lot in Dayton, Ohio.
Ken gently counseled the woman. Soon she met the One Who would lead her out of her situation into a new life. Then he hung up the phone, still dazed. Would his family believe his incredible story?
But he had prayed for an answer, and he had received just what he neededa renewed sense of purpose, a glimpse of the value of his work, an electrifying awareness of Gods concern for each of His childrenall in an encounter that could only have been arranged by his Heavenly Father.
* * *
Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions 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 please 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 dont 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 elses? 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 pitted: marked by pits, small holes
2 semicoma: a partial or mild unconscious state
3 ominous: menacing, threatening
4 hypothermia: a condition of reduced body temperature caused by exposure to extreme cold
5 prone: lying face downward
6 sonorous: having or producing a full, deep, or rich sound
7 breakwater: a barrier that protects a harbor or shore from the full impact of waves
8 concussion: an injury to a soft bodily tissue, especially the brain, resulting from a violent blow
9 bayou: term used in some parts of the southern United States for a sluggish stream that meanders through lowlands, marshes or plantation grounds
10 shell road: a road in which the road surface is composed of sea shells
11 eighteen-wheeler: a very large truck having 18 wheels, with two long cargo trailers behind it
12 doldrums: a period of depression or unhappy listlessness
13 Candid Camera: A (former) popular TV show that played harmless practical jokes on people which audiences found very funny