Power and Protection!--Part 17 CLTP 26 DFO
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!
(For 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at the adults' discretion.)
The Snakebite
By Debbie Durrance
We had just finished Sunday dinner when our 12-year-old son, Mark, asked if he and his dog, Bo, could go out into the field beyond our house for a while. "Just be careful," my husband told him. It was the advice Bobby always gave our children whenever they went out alone, especially in the three years since we'd moved 30 miles out into the brushland of southwestern Florida. Several of our animals had been bitten by rattlesnakes.
As I cleared away the dinner dishes, I watched Mark and Bo race off through the orange and lemon trees of our private oasis. Mark had become so self-reliant out here in the country, I thought.
I took my time with the dishes, enjoying the slow Sunday afternoon, and was just finishing up when I heard the living room door open. Suddenly our older son, Buddy, yelled, "Mark, what's wrong?" I threw down the dish towel and ran toward the living room just as Mark gasped, "II've been rattlesnake-bit. ... " There was a dull thud. When I got there, Mark was on the floor, unconscious. "Go get your dad. Hurry!" I said to Buddy.
I pulled off Mark's shoe; his foot had already swollen into a large, ugly purple mass. There was a musky odor about him, the same odor we'd noticed the times our animals had been bitten by rattlesnakes. In seconds, Bobby rushed in and grabbed Mark up in his arms. "Come on," he said. "We've got to get him to the emergency center!"
We ran and climbed into the cab of Bobby's work truck. I held Mark on my lap, Buddy sat in the middle and Bobby drove. "Oh, God," I prayed, "help us." It was 17 miles to the emergency center, and every minute counted.
Mark was unconscious, and convulsions [1] jerked his body. I tried to hold him still, with his face next to mine. As long as I could feel his breath against my cheek, I knew he was still alive. But the soft flutters were becoming weaker and less frequent.
"Hurry, Bobbyplease hurry!" I pleaded as he frantically passed car after car. Buddy sat in the center, quietly struggling to hold his brother's legs. None of us dared say it, but we all knew we were in a race with death.
As we neared the business section, steam started to seep out from under the hood of the truck. The motor was overheating. About a mile from the clinic, the motor began to pop and sputter.
I glanced over at Bobby. What would we do if the motor stopped? But before I could get the words out, Bobby had to brake for a slower vehicle and the motor cut off completely. I clutched Mark to me, trying to hold on to whatever life was left. We were right in the middle of traffic. Cars were pulling around us and honking their horns. Bobby jumped out and tried to flag down one of the motorists, but the cars just sped around him. "Why won't they stop?" Bobby sighed.
Desperate by now, Bobby ran over and pulled Mark from my arms. He carried him out to the rear of the car, where the other drivers could see him, but still the cars kept going by. Finally one old compact car stopped. The driver appeared to be a Haitian farm worker, and he didn't understand English. But he could tell we needed help.
"Thank you, thank you ... " Bobby shouted as he pulled open the door and pushed Buddy in the back seat. Then he laid Mark down beside him and waved the driver off as I jumped in the front.
"We have to get to the emergency center!" I cried, but his questioning look told me he didn't understand. I pointed in the direction we should go.
As we pulled away, I glanced back at Bobby standing in the street. There was no room for him in the small car and our truck was blocking traffic, but I wished he could be with me.
At the emergency center, medical technicians started working on Mark immediately, trying to stabilize his condition. They started fluids and began artificial respiration. But soon after Bobby arrived, the emergency technicians told us they had done all they could and were transferring Mark to Naples Community Hospital, where Dr. Michael Nycum would meet us.
By the time we arrived at the hospital, Mark had stopped breathing twice and had gone into a coma. For the next 12 hours we waited and prayed while the doctors and nurses worked constantly with him. We could tell by the looks on their faces that they didn't expect him to make it.
"Folks, about the only thing the little fellow has going for him is his heartand that's under tremendous strain," Dr. Nycum told us.
We watched helplessly during the next 24 hours as the venom attacked every part of his body. He eyes swelled so tight that all we could see were the ends of his eyelashes.
Then miraculously, Mark passed the crisis point and began to improve a little. He was still in a coma, and certainly not out of danger, but the swelling began to go down.
After that, each day brought improvement. On Thursday, Bobby and I sat there beside Mark's bed. We were drained, exhausted, prayed out. I was sitting in a chair close to him, holding his hand, when I thought I felt a movement. But no, I told myself, it was probably my imagination. Yet a moment later, there it was again, a faint fluttering of the small hand inside mine.
"Bobby," I said, sitting up and reaching across to him, "Bobby! Mark movedhe moved!"
Bobby summoned the nurses and doctor. Mark was coming out of the coma.
"Mom ... Mom ... " he moaned.
"Yes, honey, we're here." The words caught in my throat.
"Dad ... "
"Yes, Son ... "
His eyes opened now as he looked over at Bobby. "Dad ... are you mad at me?"
"What do you mean?" Bobby tried to laugh, but it came out a little ragged. "Of course I'm not mad at you."
"I was afraid you'd be mad at me for being so careless."
Bobby reached over and patted Mark on the head. "We're just thankful you're getting better. But what happened, Son? Do you feel like telling us?"
The nurses and Dr. Nycum moved a little closer.
"Well, Bo and I spotted a bird in a cabbage palm and, well, I guess I wasn't paying too much attention to where I was going. I was looking at the bird and jumped over the ditch ... and my foot landed on something that moved when I hit it.
"And then it was like something slammed down hard on my foot, and my leg started getting real hot. When I looked down, I saw a big rattler had hold of my shoeit was biting on my foot. It was hurting so bad and Bo was barking and jumping at the snake, but it wouldn't let go. Then Bo jumped on the snake and tore into its head. It let go and crawled off into the bushes.
"Dad, I tried to remember what you said to do if we ever got snakebit, but I was hurting so bad, and getting weak and dizzy. I was a long way from the house, and I knew none of you would hear me if I called ... "
"But where were you, Mark?" Bobby asked.
"Out in the field, a long ways from the house. Out there next to the ditch in the field."
"But that's a third of a mile from the house. How did you get to the house?"
Dr. Nycum shook his head. "Medically speaking, it would have been impossible for him to have walked that far."
Bobby and I looked uncertainly at each other. There were also the 13 steps up to our front doorhe would have had to climb those too. I took a deep breath. After everything that had happened, I was almost afraid to ask, but I had to know, "How did you get back to the house, Mark?"
"Well, I remembered you and Dad saying that the more you moved, the quicker the poison would reach your heart, and I knew I couldn't run. But I was so scared, and all I wanted to do was get home. I probably would have run if I could have, but I couldn't because it hurt so bad. And then ... Dad, there's something I have to tell you. About the man."
"The man? What man?" Bobby asked. "Was someone out there with you?"
"YesI mean, noI mean, I don't know. All I know is that he carried me. ... "
"He carried you?"
"Yes, when I couldn't make it to the house. He picked me up." I could feel a tingle on the back of my neck.
"He talked to me in a real deep voice," Mark went on, "and told me that I was going to be real sick, but that I'd be all right."
"What did he look like?" I asked Mark shakily.
"I couldn't see his face, Mom. All I could see was that he had on a white robe, and his arms were real strong. He reached down and picked me up. And I was hurting so bad, I just sort of leaned my head over on him. He carried me to the house and up the steps. When he put me down, I held on to the door and turned around, and ... "
His blue eyes stared into mine with an earnestness I'd never seen before. "All I could see was his back."
For a long time, none of us could speak; it was almost more than we could take in. God is our refuge and strength, I said to myself, a very present help in time of trouble.
For most of my life I had believed that passage in the Bible by faith. Now I saw proof of it.
"Mom ... Dad ... " Mark said, hesitating, "I know you may not believe me. ... "
"We believe you," I whispered as Bobby put his arm around me. "We believe you."
* * *
The Last 10 Seconds
By Ed Turner
"It's a perfect day for skydiving," I marveled as I squinted up at the brilliant Florida sky. Some friends and I were driving down to Clewiston, near Lake Okeechobee, to practice a star formation jump that we planned to perform in an upcoming competition. The jump required extraordinary timing and precision, and we'd come up with some ideas on how we could link up and form the star faster in midair. A quicker formation meant we could maintain it longer and score points with the judges. The 12 of us wanted to do some fine-tuning on our teamwork. In this sort of skydiving, you put your life in the hands of your partners.
I had no problem with that. My partners were all seasoned jumpers. My good friend Frank Farnan, for instance, had 25 years of experience. With Bob, Mike and others, between us we had thousands of jumps to our credit.
Hurling yourself out of an airplane at 13,000 feet may not be everyone's idea of a relaxing good time, but for me it was the perfect way to spend the day. I've always been the adventurous sort. I learned to fly when I was 14. I was a fighter pilot in the Air Force and went on to a career in commercial aviation. The open sky offered me the perfect stage to test myself. I never doubted my ability to meet a challenge and conquer it, to act quickly and decisively. Maybe I had a streak of daredevil in me, but proving myself made me feel in control, invincible.
There was a lot of joking and horsing around as we climbed into our gear and checked out our equipment. But once airborne in the cramped Twin Beech plane, the mood grew serious. As we attained jump altitude, I secured my chute straps and double-checked the warning buzzer in my helmet. During the jump the buzzer would automatically alert me when I had 10 seconds left to safely yank the rip cord. Once that 10 seconds passed, I'd be in real trouble if my chute wasn't out. There was no room for mistakes.
I was the fourth one out of the plane. I had just an instant to enjoy that first breathless rush of exhilaration before linking up with the three other divers. It is a feeling of both weightlessness and tremendous speed, of silence and of the roar of the wind. Below, the earth looked like a painted set-piece.
I linked hands in the formation. Two more men hooked up. Then Mike. Then Frank. Then two others. Things were going smoothly. We were actually slightly ahead of schedule in forming the star.
Suddenly to my right I noticed a disturbance. The eleventh man out of the plane had hit the star too rapidly. He collided with Frank. The jolt instantly knocked Frank out of formation. A second later he fell away from the star and began plunging limply toward the earth.
He's out cold! I realized with a twinge of panic.
Instinctively I glanced above me to see Bob, the twelfth diver. Bob swooped past the formation headfirst in desperate pursuit of Frank.
I'm not doing any good sticking with the formation, I thought quickly. I wasn't even sure the others grasped what was taking place. It was all happening so fast. I released and went into a head dive after Bob. We had to catch up to Frank before it was too late.
I plummeted toward the two men at 200 miles an hour, tucking in my arms to streamline my body for minimal wind resistance. The force of the dive tore at my goggles. When I got to within 50 feet or so of Frank I was able to slow down and get a good look at him. A knot twisted in my stomach. He was on his back, unconscious, completely helpless.
Below me I saw Bob making a pass at Frank, trying to reach his rip cord. He missed. To my left I spotted Mike. Apparently he too had seen what was happening and had rocketed after me. Bob made another lunge at Frank. Then Mike moved in. Both missed.
Frank had been knocked out at about 11,000 feet. I knew we were still pretty high up, but I also realized how fast Frank was falling through the air. We had less than a minute to save him.
I veered down toward Frank. Every time I got close, he drifted away. He was beginning to spin, his arms and legs swinging wildly. I was running out of time. The only thing to do was dive down past him, make a lunge as I went by, and try to grab him in a bear hug. With any luck I'd be able to jerk his rip cord and then get out of the way.
I braced myself. Okay, Ed, you're an old fighter pilot. Use your instincts. React to his movements.
I adjusted my goggles and made the final pass. I drew close. Frank was upside down. I was just a few feet above him. Suddenly I noticed movement; Frank's left hand appeared to be hitting groggily at his rip cord as though he were getting ready to pull.
Oh no, I thought, a burst of fear gripping me. He's coming to. I was in danger of getting tangled in his chute. I had to make a split-second decision: make a grab for him now or get clear. Everything I knew and was trained to do screamed at me to roll over to the side and get out of the way before he pulled his cord, or we'd both be killed.
I backed off and fell below. I looked up, expecting to see his chute blossoming above. Instead, Frank continued to plummet haplessly [2]. I saw now that the movement I'd detected was nothing more than Frank's arm flapping uselessly in the wind. In that one terrible instant, I'd made the wrong decision. I should have grabbed him while I could. But my nerve failed me. My mistake would cost my friend's life.
I glanced wildly at my altimeter ... 4,500 feet. We had maybe 30 seconds left. I was doing everything I could to create as much drag as possible so that I could climb back up to him. Nothing was working. On his back, Frank was creating more wind resistance than I could equal. The distance between us lengthened. For the first time in my life I felt utterly out of control. The seconds were ticking off in my mind ... 24 ... 23 ...
Then, unexpectedly, inexplicably, I heard myself calling out, "God! God! Please help me!"
I was not a religious man. To me, God had always been distant, impersonal. In tough times, I'd learnt to count on myself. I didn't believe in asking for help. Only the weak begged. But now all of my toughness and self-reliance availed me nothing. I only knew that I couldn't get out of this mess alone.
Bob and Mike came in for one last desperate approach from the side. Frank was like a football during a fumble as the wind buffeted him first one way, then the other. The angle of their approach caused a draft that pushed Frank away.
But it also caused a small vacuum directly underneath him. Suddenly Frank dropped. In an instant he was directly in front of me and perfectly level! Only a few feet separated us.
I straightened my legs to swoop in on him before he fell out of my grasp. Just as I leaned my body in his direction and reached out
BUUUUZZZZZZZZZZ!
I flinched. It was the altitude alarm in my helmet blasting a warning. Ten seconds left. Nine, eight ... I didn't dare hesitate now. I was so close! One peek at the up-rushing ground would shatter my concentration. I inched closer to Frank. Five seconds, four ...
I shot forward and grabbed hold of Frank's leg with my right hand. The fingers on my left hand twitched just inches from Frank's cord. Two, one ...
With a final lunge I grasped his cord and pulled. In almost the same movement I shoved him away with all my strength and yanked my own chute.
Only when I felt the familiar tug of my parachute clutching the air and slowing my descent did I finally allow myself a glimpse of the ground. It was a beautiful sight as I drifted lazily back to earth. But most beautiful of all was the sight of my friends' parachutes billowing in the breeze, Bob's, Mike's ... and Frank's.
A month later we were all back at Zephyr Hills for the competition, including Frank. He'd suffered only a mild concussion in the accident and a bruised elbow when he'd landed. But to this day Frank has no recollection of the jump.
It's a jump I'll not likely forget. My life has not been quite the same since. I still love the excitement of challenging myself, but I no longer think of it as something I do alone. People said I was a hero for rescuing Frank, but when I hit the ground that day I felt as if I'd been the one rescued.
In a moment of fear and trouble I discovered a very present help. It's a help I ask for now before I jump. In the longestand shortest60 seconds of my life, God showed me that real men aren't afraid to ask for help. True courage comes from believing that God's strength is always your strength.
* * *
Angels Watching over Me ...
Compiled from A Rustle of Angels, by Marilynn and William Webber and Angel Letters, by Sophy Burnham
A couple of years ago, Tina Lee's husband, David, was clearing some land to enlarge their produce garden near their home in rural Georgia. The Lees enjoyed gardening, and their crop of peas, butter beans, tomatoes, and potatoes (among other things) fed them all year 'round. As David drove the tractor, Tina went inside to answer the telephone, which was by the window from which she could watch both her husband and their two-year-old son Joshua, who was playing near the house.
As she picked up the phone, she was horrified to look outside and see David on the groundand the tractor on top of him. "Joshua, stay right there!" she yelled to her son as she raced past him to try to save her husband. Tina arrived to find the tractor pinning Davidby the rubber sole of his work boot. The ignition key was turned halfway off, which had stalled the large tractor. Tina helped David out from under the tractor. The worst injury he suffered was a twisted ankle.
As they discussed the accident, David shook his head and said he didn't understand what had happened: He remembered the tractor being right over himthen moving away from him, as if someone had shoved it aside. He also had no idea why the engine had stalled when it did. He had expected to lose his leg, if not his life.
Just then little Joshua came running over to his parents:
"Did you see him, Daddy?" Josh asked.
"Who?" asked David.
"The man," the little boy said, his eyes still wide. "He was as tall as the trees! He moved the tractor when it was falling on Daddy, then he turned the key."
Tina and David hadn't seen, but they both knew that "from the mouths of babes" had come the only explanation for what had happened. "I've always believed in angels and felt their comfort," says Tina, "but this solidified my belief that angels are always protecting us, too!"
*
On September 20, 1990, my three-year-old little girl went outdoors to play. As I watched through the sliding-glass patio doors, she opened the back door, turned to close it, and then squatted down almost immediately. I turned away, and a few moments later heard a crash. A huge limb had fallen from our largest elm tree, right near my little girl.
Later, I asked my daughter why she hadn't been playing in the yard, driving her little red, battery-powered jeep. She said without any hesitation, "Mommy, a good god told me to sit down and not go under the tree, and I did just what she told me to do."
This "good god" was a beautiful girl with long golden hair that flowed past her shoulders. She came from the sky and had wings. She had a light so bright about her, said my daughter, that it hurt her eyes, but, when she touched the light, she was surprised how cool it was. It did not burn. The angel had specific jewelry on, especially a necklace that was "so shiny." "She wore all colors," said my daughter.
Certain changes have occurred in my daughter's behavior since the incident, most noticeably a serene calmness. She prays, and also insists on saying a grace at every meal, a tradition that had not been in our family before. She has drawn numerous pictures of the angel "Rebecca Rose" almost every day since the incident, and wants stories from the Bible read to her at night.
Now, several more months have passed. She says that she cannot see "Rebecca Rose" anymoreis not allowed toand she longs to have her back; but she says that she has been told she will see her again in ten years.
*
The year was 1938, and it was a cold, wet, dreary February afternoon. I was a sixteen-year-old boy who had been on the road for over four months. Life on the road during those Depression years was hard, and I was trying to get home. The place was the railway yards in Hayti, Missouri.
I was standing under the shed of a warehouse loading dock waiting for the freight train that was in the yards taking on water and coal.
The train started moving out, pulled by two large locomotives, which meant it would gain speed quickly and that it was a long train.
I stood waiting until I saw a boxcar with a door open, then I started running to jump in. The boxcar was rather high off the ground because of the terrain. When I jumped I only got halfway in; the lower half of my legs dangled out of the door and the upper half of my body was lying flat on the floor of the boxcar. I couldn't pull myself in because I had nothing to hold onto. The train was gaining speed very fast as I lay there trying to pull myself in, my arms outstretched on the floor. I knew if I fell it would be certain death under the wheels of that freight train. I will never forget that moment. I thought my time had come.
As I was struggling on the floor, I can recall saying, "O God, please don't let me die here." I raised my head enough to see a very large black man, in his thirties, standing there looking at me. He didn't say anything to me and I didn't say anything to him. He reached down, got hold of me by the arms, and pulled me into the boxcar. I lay on the floor face down for about half a minute, to catch my breath and regain my strength. When I got up to thank the man, he was nowhere to be seen. The boxcar was completely empty; the other door was closed, and the train was moving too fast for anyone to jump out and live. There was no one in that boxcar but me. The black man had vanished.
If a person has his own guardian angel, then my angel is a big, strong, black man in his thirties who saved me from a sure death at the wheels of a freight train and didn't wait around to be thanked.Charles A. Galloway, Jr.
* * *
The Glow Above the Mountain
By Sybil Robson
If I had remembered my frightening dream, I would never have taken my father skiing that January day. In the nightmare I catapulted off a mountain ice chute and saw my father lying face down in snow that was stained crimson around his head. I awoke with a start and sat up in bed shaking. The red numerals of my bedside clock glowed 3:00 A.M.
But I had forgotten the dream a month later when my 70-year-old father and I rode the aerial ski lift up into the Arlberg mountains in Austria. We were both veteran skiers, and looked forward to a great day together on the St. Anton slopes.
Mother skis, but had decided not to join us that day. She and Dad were devout churchgoers, and I had been as well until I lost my faith as a teenager. There had been a rift in our congregation, with much acrimony [3] and backbiting. By the time I left home for college I was so disillusioned I not only quit going to church, I also doubted the foundations of Christianity. I then went on to carve out a career as a television anchor and later moved into producing motion pictures.
But on that sparkling sunny day in the Alps, film making was the last thing on my mind as Dad and I surveyed the eye-blinding white slopes in the crystalline air. Since Dad hadn't brought his own skis on this trip, he had rented a pair. "The bindings don't seem quite right," he said, working his boots a bit. "But maybe I just have to get used to them," he added. "C'mon," he challenged, "I'll race you down."
The area was incredibly crowded with skiers and we decided to traverse a less congested slope. On our way, one of Dad's skis came loose and he tumbled down the hill. I told him to stay put, and while he refastened the ski I slid past him to what looked like another run [4]. It seemed a little icy, and boulders bordered the trail, which curved off to the right. But we were both experts and had handled much worse.
I called, "We can try this one, Dad, unless you want to hike up."
He looked up and down, then said, "Let's just ski it."
As I waited, he started down. Suddenly, one of his skis broke loose, then the other, and I stared in horror as Dad came rocketing headfirst down the trail straight for the boulders. He would be killed, I knew. There was only one chance: use my body to block him from the rocks.
I scrunched down, set my edges ... boom! He hit me like a missile. Both of us entangled and shot past the boulders around the curve. Suddenly the mountain dropped out from under us.
We were plummeting down a steep ice chute! The wind had been knocked out of me and my skis flew off as we plunged down the steep descent.
Wavelike ridges in the ice threw us into the air again and again. Once, as we crashed down, Dad landed on top of me and I couldn't catch my breath. In a knot of flailing [5] arms and legs I could only glimpse a whirling kaleidoscope [6] of blue sky and white snow.
Then a strange thing happened: We were still falling, but everything slowed down. I found myself about 200 feet above the ice chute, looking down at Dad barreling headfirst, my body now following his, both flopping up and down like rag dolls. I observed it all without emotion, not concerned that I was dead or that anything bad was happening. Then I was above the mountains viewing a glittering panorama of snowy peaks undulating to the horizon.
A beautiful peace filled me, a peace I had never known, a bliss so comforting I felt enveloped in warm honey. It was coming from a golden glow above me, and as I rose higher, I turned toward it. Then I heard the words: "Not now." It was a voice, so profound, so full of love. I knew it was God.
At that moment I found myself back in my body, catapulting off the chute through the air, landing on an access road, and blacking out. I regained consciousness to see my father lying face down in snow stained crimson around his head, just as in my dream.
I passed out. The next thing I knew my dad and I were being delivered to a hospital in ski-patrol baskets. Doctors discovered Dad had internal injuries and a severely dislocated shoulder. Thanks to expert treatment, he recovered. My injuries were nominal [7], mainly bruises.
From that day on, I was driven to find the source of the golden glow that so attracted me above the mountains. In my search, people steered me to gurus [8] and metaphysical [9] leaders from Los Angeles to India. I went to the desert for meditation and paid visits to ashrams [10]. All promised much, but I found if I dug deep enough I came up with nothing.
Finally I joined a group of movie producers, many of whom happened to be Christian. There was a man in the group who had become a Christian 15 years earlier. Knowing that he must have had many of the same questions about Jesus as I had, I began meeting with him and expressing my doubts about the Bible and Christianity. For the first time, someone wasn't afraid of the questions. Rather than accusing me of a lack of faith or belief, we explored the verses that I could not accept as truth. He showed me the text of the Bible in its original languages, which eventually left me with evidence I could no longer deny.
I now knew it was Jesus I had been so desperately looking for. I opened my heart to Him and asked Him to take over my life, and He did. I then realized that as a disillusioned teenager I had somehow mixed up church with God.
Now I feel close to the Source of that golden glow above the mountains and know that someday He will lovingly say, "Yes, now," and welcome me Home.
* * *
The Confrontation
By Mark Richard
I had been in New York just a few weeks, having moved here from Virginia Beach, Virginia. The only apartment I could afford was in a bad neighborhood in Queens (New York City), where at night roaches skittered [11] across the walls and the streets were filled with young toughs. After much prayer and searching, I found a temporary job in a restaurant in Manhattan's Greenwich Village.
The restaurant often closed at two or three in the morning, but because we had to count out the registers and clean up, we waiters were sometimes not able to leave until four. Then I had to cross several dark streets with my tips, all the money I had in the world, divided in different pockets and zippered in the lining of my jacket. The idea was, in case I was mugged, maybe the thieves would not take everything I had. I learned this ploy from my co-workers. While cleaning up, they would often swap tales of being held up on the way homeat knife point, gun point or just by a hand thrust into a paper sack (and having to decide whether a weapon was really concealed within). I later learned from a police detective that generally there is a gun in the paper sack; muggers use the tactic so victims will not freeze with fear and fail to cooperate.
After leaving the restaurant I would catch the Seventh Avenue subway to Times Square, where I would transfer to the Number 7, the only train out to my neighborhood. At that hour, the Times Square subway station is a strangely quiet place. Long corridors connecting platforms are empty. There are blind turns. Great lengths of walkways are garishly [12] lit with bare bulbs. It is a place of passage for the occasional late-night reveler, a retreat where the homeless sleep. And it is a place for those intent on criminal mischief, for the subways themselves provide getaways, and the tunnels a maze of hiding places.
One night I stood on a platform waiting for a train that seemed long overdue. I had been on my feet for 10 hours serving a surly Saturday evening crowd. At the other end of the platform were three young men. We seemed to be the only people in this place. Indeed, I felt as if we were the only people in this big city waiting underground for a train home.
After a while, I noticed that the three men were watching me. Were they sizing me up? I told myself I was just being paranoid from being tired, having a few hundred dollars' worth of tips in my pockets and being new in the city. Still, I moved a little way down the platform.
That was probably a mistake. Animals can detect fear in humans, and I am sure that experienced criminals can do the same thing. The three men moved down the platform, easing closer to me. Needless to say, I was whispering some quiet prayers and glancing at a stairway that would be my escape route if I had to make a run for it.
To avoid showing my fear, I concentrated on the tiles in the opposite wall across the subway tracks and looked down the darkened tube, hoping and praying the train would arrive. I became aware of how cavernous [13] the entire structure was; in some ways its arches and ceilings reminded me of some cathedrals I had visited.
The three young men were now watching me closely and taking smaller steps to where I stood. Instead of fearing for my life, incredibly, I was wondering how I was going to pay my rent after being relieved of my money. I took another step toward the stairway leading up from the platform.
At this point I put everything into the Lord's hands. I was praying. I was sweating. In the adrenaline rush of fight-or-flight, I was preparing to run up the stairs when one of the men walked around me to the foot of the stairway, where he stood, arms crossed, staring at me.
Just as I was expecting them to demand my valuables, a strange thing happened. From the stairway came a singing voice. It was so soft at first that it could have been just a note of a distant siren, but then I distinctly heard a couple of phrases. The song was in a language I did not understand. As the voice grew louder, it sounded like Latin. It was a soft male voice but strong and confident in its high reaches.
Our little platform drama halted. In fact, the man from whom I expected the demand, who only moments before seemed ready to speak, remained quiet, as if his words stuck in his throat. The voice approached us from the stairway, and now we could even hear slow, steady, heavy footsteps. My first instinct was to thank God for sending me an Irish cop on his beat singing a song from his days as an altar boy.
Apparently my companions did not share my perception of a possible rescue. Perhaps it was because the footfalls were taking so long to come to the top of the stairway. Perhaps it was the song itself. Perhaps, although the steps sounded heavy, the voice was so delicate that its owner would be little deterrent to crime. An arm reached for my jacket.
And there we stood, motionless, everyone, including the youth with his hand on my sleeve, staring at the stairway.
The singing grew louder; it began to echo down the platform behind us, reminding me of my cathedral comparison earlier. How odd, I thought, that such a place could have such wonderful acoustics [14]. That one voice was sounding better and better as it got closer and closer. I knew that whomever that voice belonged to would decide my fate for that night, perhaps for my life.
The miracle is, no one appeared at the top of the stairs. No Irish cop, no late-night reveler, no choir member, no one. The footfalls came to a stop there and the singing voice was instantly drowned out.
What drowned out the voice in those final moments was the approaching roar of my train coming into the station. The platform filled with people, and then a transit cop disembarked. I am sure I was saved because the young men were waiting to discover the identity of the singer with the heavy tread.
I called my mother the next day to tell her about the eerie [15] happening, and she began to cry. She said that the previous night she had asked a special prayerfor me to be surrounded by a legion of angels.
But I knew it wasn't necessary to pray for an entire legion. One with a fine voice and a heavy foot was all I needed.
* * *
The Fire and Misty, Boots, Baby, and Little Bits
By Joan Wester Anderson
God cares about animals! Jesus Himself said that not even a sparrow falls to Earth without God noticing.
Maureen Broadbent and her husband had a home in the countryside outside of Corona, in Southern California. One memorable day, Maureen returned from grocery shopping to find her house in flames. The volunteer fire workers were already on the scene but just standing by, watching the fire progress.
"We can't go near it," explained the fire chief. "It sounds like there's fireworks going off inside the house."
Maureen realized that the popping noises coming from inside the house were from the guns her husband kept to keep coyotes at bay. They were firing in the heat.
Maureen heard barking and realized that their two dogs, Misty and Boots, their two cats, Baby and Little Bits, as well as the visiting neighbor dog, had escaped through the doggie door into the backyard. Also because of coyotes in this still-wild section of Southern California, the backyard was surrounded by a heavy-duty, eight-foot-high chain-link fence with barbed wire wound on top to protect our pets. Maureen started toward the gate to release the animals, but the fire warden held her back and pointed to the top of the fence. Somehow the fire had downed overhead wires. "We can't tell if they're phone wires or electrical wires. If they're electric, that whole fence will be alive. No one can touch it."
Maureen was grieved by the burning of her house and possessions, but she couldn't stand the thought of the swiftly spreading fire killing her pets trapped in the backyard. She ran around to the back and talked to the dogs, Misty and Boots, and cats Baby and Little Bits. They were frightened but trusting, mutely [16] begging for her to help them escape the escalating heat. But the situation seemed hopeless.
Maureen sank to the ground, crying, and began to pray: "Oh God, how do I get my animals out of here? I'm afraid to touch the fence ... "
Suddenly her attention was caught by the figure of a man running through the wild acres that surrounded the house. Although the brush and bristles were thick and waist high, the man was shirtless and running with ease. Maureen knew everyone who lived in this remote area, but she'd never seen this man before. As he approached, she saw that he was about six feet tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed. Although he ran with effortless speed, when he burst from the thorny brush she saw that he was barefoot.
Without saying a word, he went to the fence, grabbed it, and easily pulled it up from the bottom until there was an opening large enough for the cats, the border collie, the neighbor's dog, and even the German shepherd to squeeze through. The animals escaped at once and surrounded Maureen where she sat on the ground. There she was smothered with licks and sloppy kisses, in the center of a joyful reunion.
When she looked up to thank the mysterious stranger, he wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere. From the Broadbents' home, she could see for miles in every direction, and besides the firemen, there was no one either at the house or heading through the fields.
As a postscript, the Broadbents add that no human, no matter how large or well-muscled, could move the fence back down to where it had been so easily lifted up. The Broadbents now live in Texas, where Maureen happily reports she is now aware of God's Love and the protection of His angels on a daily basis.
* * *
Protector in the Barn
By Joan Wester Anderson
Ever since fifth grade, Katie Lowell and Michelle Sanders had ridden horses together in the rural East Coast area where they both live. By the time Katie turned thirteen in 1980, she was the proud owner of Blaze, a beautiful chestnut with white markings on his face. Since Michelle lived on a huge farm with lots of barns and pastures, Katie explains, "I fed Blaze and turned him out on one of the pastures. Then Michelle and I walked down a long driveway to meet the school bus."
After school, the girls retraced their steps, walking from the bus stop back to the farm. "Sometimes I wouldn't see Blaze because of the rolling hills," Katie says. "But I'd call him, and he'd gallop in, full speed." The girls would brush their horses and saddle up so they could ride a bit before dark. Eventually Katie's father would arrive to take his daughter home. It was a perfect arrangement.
Usually Michelle went home before Katie's father arrived. Since the other horse boarders weren't around at that time, Katie was alone. "But I loved it," she says. "The farm was a peaceful place, and I was never afraid."
One pleasant afternoon in late October, Katie and Michelle jumped off the school bus and ran up the driveway to the pasture where their horses waited. The girls rode for a while, and eventually the shadows lengthened.
"Have to help with dinner," Michelle sighed, slipping off her horse and turning him out to the pasture. Michelle always had kitchen chores to do.
Katie opened her mouth to say good-bye to her friend, then stopped. She felt odd. In fact, for no apparent reason, she was suddenly afraid. "Do you have to go?" she asked.
Michelle looked perplexed. "Of course. And, anyway, it's getting dark and your dad will be here soon. See you tomorrow!" With a wave, she headed toward her house.
Katie didn't wave back. By now she was extremely frightened. Yet everything seemed normal. Why this strange agitation [17]? She would finish the barn chores quickly and wait outside for her father, she decided. Usually, it was hard to leave the farm, but tonight she longed to see his car.
Katie led Blaze into his stall and hurriedly brushed him down. Being inside the barn made her even more nervous, as if she were being watched. Yet, no one was there. Finally, she finished. But just before leaving, she realized that the horses were short of hay. She'd need to go up into the loft and throw some down.
The barn's top three floors were used to store hay. The floor above the stalls was divided into four corners, one for each horse, so the boarders would know how much hay they were using and when they needed to buy more.
Katie climbed the hayloft ladder under her corner. With each step, her feeling of dread increased. Something was terribly wrong. She knew it, without knowing how she knew it. Instinct told her to run, that she was in danger, that something terrible was going to happen. But it was unthinkable that her beloved Blaze should be left without hay. At the top of the ladder, she put her hand on the door and started to push.
"Katie," a voice said over her left shoulder. "Katie, close the door. Do not go up there. Go out, sit quietly, and wait for your father."
The voice wasn't loud, nor was it either male or female, "but it felt masculine," Katie says. It was calm, firm, preciseand not at all frightening. But it commanded.
Startled, Katie turned in the direction of the voice. But no one was behind her. There was no one at all in the barn.
She didn't hesitate. Quickly climbing down the ladder, Katie scooted out and waited in the usual place for her father. As soon as he came, she jumped into the car. "I didn't feel safe," she says, "until the barn was completely out of sight."
The next morning before school, Katie's father drove her to the farm. But as they reached the barn, they saw police cars surrounding it.
Katie's father got out of the car. "What's going on?" he asked an officer.
Katie followed him, worried. Was Blaze all right? What had happened?
"Everything's okay now," the police officer reassured them. "But yesterday, a violent inmate escaped from a mental hospital and wound up here."
"Here?" Kate's heart started to pound.
"Yeah." The policeman motioned to the side of the barn near Blaze's stall. "He was hiding up in the loft, on a bed of hay he'd made on this corner."
Her corner. Where her hay was kept. Where she had almost opened the loft door. ...
The officer shook his head. "He had a three-pronged pitchfork lying beside him, in case someone got in his way. Lucky no one did until we caught him just now."
Lucky? Katie remembered the untamed terror that had surrounded her, the loving voice that had sent her out of the barn to safety, and knewwould always knowthat it was far more than luck.
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 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 convulsions: intense, involuntary muscular contractions
2 haplessly: without luck; unfortunately
3 acrimony: bitter, sharp, ill-natured speech or behavior
4 run: a slope or trail for skiing
5 flailing: waving or swinging vigorously
6 kaleidoscope: a constantly changing set of colors, views or events
7 nominal: insignificantly small
8 guru: a teacher and guide in spiritual and philosophical matters
9 metaphysical: having to do with the real nature of things; philosophical; concerned with abstract thought or subjects, spiritual matters
10 ashram: a secluded residence of an Eastern religious community and its guru
11 skitter: to run quickly along a surface with frequent changes of direction
12 garish: bright and flashy; gaudy
13 cavernous: resembling a cavern, as in depth, vastness or effect
14 acoustics: the total effect of sound, especially as produced in an enclosed space
15 eerie: suggestive of the supernatural; strange; mysterious
16 mutely: unable to speak
17 agitation: extreme emotional disturbance