Christian Leadership Training Program #3--Power & Protection Part 3
(For interesting comments on these stories, see the Introduction to Power & Protection!--Part 1," by Maria Fontaine [CLTP 1].
(Please refer to discussion questions on page 11 after reading each story.)
The Hand on My Shoulder
By Jerry Bond
         Late one March evening in 1974, I was wakened by the sound of distant cries and shouts. At first I thought it was a domestic* quarrel, but an urgency in the voices caused me to think it might be something more serious. I got up and opened the window. The smell of smoke, heavy and pungent*, drifted into the room. And the voices, shrill with panic, cut clearly through the cool night air. Help me! Help me! My little girl is in there!" (*See page 12 for definitions.)
         Alarmed, I pulled on my pants, grabbed a flashlight, and followed the cries to Medlin Street, a block and a half away. There the house of a family named Green, a one-story brick structure, was ablaze. Black smoke was pouring out of the windows. A small crowd had gathered, mostly neighbours and a few policemen. The fire department hadn't arrived yet.
         In the flickering orange-black gloom, I watched in horror as a team of men worked to pull Mr. Green through a small window near the back of the house. Then I saw Mrs. Green and three of her children huddled together on the front lawn. Their faces mirrored fear and terror. Mrs. Green was hysterical*.
         Theresa!" she screamed. My Theresa is still in there!"
         I've got to do something, I thought. I've got to help. But I stood there frozen, unable to move. Confusion and panic surrounded me, became a part of me. The whole atmosphere seemed to crackle with heat and tension. I was afraid. A great shower of fiery sparks lit the night sky as part of the house caved in, and I heard Mrs. Green scream again.
         Oh, Lord," I prayed, please help me!" Then I rushed to the house and pushed my way through the first available window. Once inside, I could hardly see. My heart was beating like a drum. Everything was black and smoking.
         I groped my way forward until I got halfway across the room. Then, abruptly, I stopped. Something--some strong and strange sensation--told me that I was in the wrong room. This isn't right, it seemed to say. This isn't where you'll find her. The feeling was so powerful that I couldn't shake it. And then, I felt on my shoulder the sure, firm grasp of a hand pulling me back toward the window.
         Get out of here!" I yelled, fearing for the other person's safety. I turned to follow, but there was no one there. There was only myself, alone and trembling.
         Gasping, I headed for the window, pulled myself through, and lowered myself to the ground. I looked up to see Mrs. Green's frantic eyes desperately searching my own for encouragement. Finding none, she gestured wildly toward another window.
         There," she whispered hoarsely. Go in there."
         The window was a few feet off the ground. Someone gave me a boost, and I pushed myself inside, dropping to the floor with a thud. This room, too, was dark and smouldering*. My eyes were smarting. I could barely see an arm's length ahead.
         Oh, Lord," I prayed again, please help me!"
         What happened next left me momentarily stunned*. First, as if in answer to my prayer, I felt a surge of confidence that I was, indeed, in the right place, that I would find Theresa. And then, to my amazement, I felt the return of the same firm force on my shoulder that had pulled me from the other room. This time, however, it was even stronger and it seemed to push me to the floor. Though I didn't understand what was happening, I didn't fight it. Instinctively*, I let it take over. Its Presence was both calming and reassuring. I knew it was good.
         I relaxed, and let myself be pushed to the floor. I began to crawl, following the wall, arms outstretched, reaching, grabbing. I came to a bed and raised myself to search its rumpled* surface.
         No! a Voice seemed to warn. Stay low! I returned to my crawling position. I had found nothing on the bed. Don't worry, the Voice whispered. You're almost there. Don't worry.
         At the foot of the bed lay a great pile of charred* chairs, quilts, and blankets that seemed to have been thrown to the floor by someone in a panic. Reaching deep into the tangled maze, I found what I had been looking for--an arm, a leg, it was impossible to tell--but then I knew I had found Theresa. I pulled and pulled until she finally emerged, a limp little brown-haired bundle.
         Theresa?" I whispered.
         A shuddering gasp, barely audible*, confirmed that she was alive. I threw her over my shoulder and ran for the window.
         The crowd outside stared in silence as I gently laid Theresa on the ground and began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation*. Her small face, black with soot, was expressionless. Blue lights from police cars pulsated in the darkness. As I breathed into her tiny frame, I prayed for her survival. Wailing sirens and flashing red lights announced the arrival of fire trucks. I kept on breathing and praying. I listened to the fire chief bellowing orders on his bullhorn, and then I heard the front door being kicked in. The fire, reignited by the fresh supply of oxygen, exploded with a scorching blast.
         Theresa's eyelids fluttered. She was breathing on her own. I held her until the ambulance arrived.
         Looks like you got her out just in time," said the medic, as he took her from my arms. She's burned, but she'll be all right."
         I waited for the ambulance to pull away, and then returned home.
         Shaken by the experience, plagued by the echoes of terrified screams, I couldn't sleep. More than anything else, I was completely unnerved* by the mysterious Presence that had led me to the little girl. I had always had faith in God and in the power of prayer, but this kind of intervention seemed uncanny*. The idea was too much to comprehend*, but I couldn't dismiss it. It kept me up all night.
         At 7:00 a.m., I put on a jacket and shoes and returned to the scene of the fire. The house, a charred hull* of blackened brick, was still smouldering. Skeletal shells of smoking furniture were strewn around the front yard. The fire inspector was there with a few policemen. He asked me what I was doing there. I told him. He said the blaze had probably been caused by a cigarette left burning on the living room sofa.
         I went around to the room where I had found Theresa. Like the rest of the house, it was badly charred and blackened from smoke. The walls were blistered from the intense heat. In one corner rested the remains of a melted tennis racket.
         Slowly I turned to gaze around the gutted* room, when suddenly I stopped, transfixed*, my eyes riveted* on the wall. There, directly above the spot where I had found Theresa, was a portrait, neatly hung and, strangely, the only thing in the room undamaged by the fire. The frame, to be sure, was black with soot, but the face--the calm, steady, reassuring face--was clear and untouched.
         It was a picture of Jesus.
         To this day, I don't know how long I stood there, incredulously* returning the portrait's gaze. But when I left, it was with newfound understanding & faith that I whispered to Him my profound* thanks.
The Lifeline
By Bruce Larson
         Two years ago I had a close encounter with death that tested everything I had ever believed or preached about the power of God.
         It all started in peace and tranquillity. Perhaps my senses were lulled by the beauty of that August Friday afternoon. With my daughter, Christine, and her college roommate, Maria, I had motorboated to a small uninhabited island off the west coast of Florida. We anchored our outboard skiff* behind a wooded point and went searching for shells.
         The island was deserted. We strolled the white-sand beach looking for the swirling beauty of a Fighting Conch shell or the iridescent* spiral of a King's Crown shell. The girls placed them in mesh sacks that had once held oranges.
         After about an hour, our sacks bulging with shells, I noticed dark clouds massing in the northwest sky. At first I dismissed it as a typical summer Gulf squall* that might well pass. But suddenly the sky blackened and a howling rain-studded* wind struck us. Sand stung our eyes and white caps foamed angrily out beyond the beach.
         We'd better get home!" I yelled, and we raced along the curving beach to the boat. On rounding the bend, we gasped. The boat was adrift! It must have dragged anchor. Now it bobbed* crazily about a hundred feet from shore.
         In thoughtless panic, I dashed into the waves and began swimming frantically toward the boat. Without it we couldn't get home!
         After thrashing through the high waves to where I thought the boat would be, I raised my head. It was gone. For an instant I caught a distant glimpse of its prow* as it scudded* before the high wind and strong current.
         Then, to my horror, I realised that these same forces were sweeping me out to sea. I was powerless against them. Lifted on the wave, I spotted the girls' frightened faces on the rapidly receding beach. Their fear infected me, and I began thrashing about, fighting for my life in a foaming maelstrom*.
         Choking on salt water, I tried to swim, but I was helpless--the water was being churned up too much to make any progress. I berated* myself for stupidity, for not making the boat secure, for swimming out to try to catch it when I should have known better.
Struggling in the seething* water, I felt I would never see land again. Strength drained from me. A deep desolation filled me as my fifty-one-year-old muscles weakened and I felt myself about to sink.
         Strange, random* thoughts whirled through my mind. Memories of the past flashed through my mind. I had always been proud of being able to cope with life. But now this was too much for me.--I felt sure I would drown.
         Then I did two sensible things. I removed my tennis shoes. And I prayed.
         Jesus, I'm going to drown. I'm coming Home. I didn't think it would be this soon, but thank You for all the good things You have given me in this life. Wonderful wife, family, friends. Thank You for my ministry and outreach for You."
         Immediately I seemed to sense the Lord speaking. There was no voice, but the thought distinctly entered my mind: Who says you are going to drown?
         Something strong and alive filled me at the thought of these words--a hope, an assurance that God was with me no matter what.
         With this hope came renewed energy. Instead of sinking I found myself treading water*. The waves are high, I thought, but the water is warm and I can stay afloat like this for a long time. Lightning ripped the black sky as the storm raged. But I was calmer. I felt stronger.
         I glanced at my luminescent* waterproof watch. A whole hour had gone by since I had swum for the boat. And still the storm raged.
I continued treading water. Something bumped my leg, and panic swept over me. Sharks? An unuttered prayer of helplessness shuddered through me, and again the fear subsided* as I held on to the Lord's presence. I was not touched again.
         Hope was keeping me alive! I recall the familiar words: And now abideth faith, hope, and Love" (1Corinthians 13:13). I had often written and spoke on the importance of Christian faith and Love, but somehow I had never personally realised the power of hope or addressed myself to it.
         Now I knew there was physical strength in hope. Prayer was keeping me in direct contact with the Lord, and the sureness of His presence fed my hope, which was renewing my strength.
         The roar of the sea and wind increased as another long hour went by. Two hours in the sea with waves seven to eight feet high--and I was still alive!
         Then through the darkness I saw a strange apparition*. It appeared to be a large Christmas tree coming toward me! Soon I recognised the illuminated mast and triangular rigging of a large seagoing tug. Hope soared. My salvation!
Exultantly*, in the trough* between the waves, I raised my arms, waving and shouting: Over here! Here I am! Help! Help!"
         Soon it was only a hundred feet away, its lights ablaze, engine and propellers drumming in the water. But the storm drowned out my voice. And the tug passed on by, its glowing stern lamp disappearing in the darkness.
         I slumped in the water in despair, hope and strength draining from me. This is it, Lord," I gasped. I guess I'm not going to be saved after all."
The reply came in my mind: Two hours ago, when there was no tugboat, you placed your hope in Me. Like lightning across the sky I felt God's test upon me: Do you put your trust in the tugboat . . . or in Me?
         Forgive me, Lord," I whispered, and again energy flooded me and I continued treading water. Another hour passed. Still another hour! It was a miracle that I was still afloat. Four hours in a storm at sea. Cramps were starting to grab my legs, but the sky began to lighten and the wind seemed less intense.
         I reached for hope once again.
         Gradually the storm passed and the Gulf sparkled a brilliant blue under a late-afternoon sun, and suddenly there on the horizon was the tug hurrying toward me, white foam surging at its bow.
         I knew it would come. Totally exhausted now, I knew that hope alone buoyed* me up.
         When they lifted me on board, the old grizzled* captain explained that the girls had signalled him from the island with their bright orange sacks.
         I was praying to find you," the captain said, but to tell the truth, I was looking for a body." He peered at me closely and exclaimed: My word! I've never seen such stamina in an old man."
         I tried to smile and flopped on the deck, my back against a cabin, as I looked out at the water and thanked the One who had been with me out there. I had been careless in not anchoring the boat securely, and foolish to swim after it. My only right move had been to place all certainty of hope in God.
         The next day I sought out the old captain to thank him again. I learned that he had been retired for some time and had only put out to sea to fill in for someone else the day before.
He had been pushing two oil barges* when he spotted the girls' signal. Miraculously, he understood what they were trying to communicate and radioed the Coast Guard for permission to cut loose the barges and hunt for me. The Coast Guard also sent out a twenty-five-foot boat, but the storm was so severe they had to turn back for a boat twice as big.
         The tug captain confessed to me that early the previous day he had run aground in the inland waterway. Terrible on my record," he said, but you know what? That delay was what put our tug in the right place at the right time so we could rescue you. And for that I thank God."
         So did I!
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Shoo-fly Pie
By Mary Helen Livingston
         The doctor closed his bag and turned to me. Call me if he gets any worse this afternoon or tonight. I'll stop by in the morning to see him. If he's no better, I'll have to put him in the hospital. He needs fluids, and he must eat."
         I've given him everything I can think of, but he just can't keep anything down."
         You must keep on trying. He is getting weak and dehydrated*. Do your best. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
         I sat down in the rocking chair by the sofa where my little son lay. Bobby had always been thin and undersized. Now, after days of battling an especially severe form of influenza, he looked wane* and wasted. What would I do if he had to be hospitalised? I was a nursing student at Florida State University in Tallahassee and had no hospitalisation insurance and very little money. What if the hospital refused to admit him?
         I prayed silently, Lord, show me what to do."
         Bobby, suppose I go to the store and buy a different kind of soup for you. And maybe some Jello. Don't you think you might be able to eat some?"
         No, Mama."
         Can't you think of anything you'd like?"
         Make me some shoo-fly pie, Mama. I could eat that. I know I could."
         Bobby had never eaten shoo-fly pie in his life. He could not desire something he had never seen or tasted. Yet I knew why he had asked. To pass the long, weary hours of illness, I had been reading stories to him from library books. Yonie Wondernose by Marguerite De Angeli was his favourite. It was the story of Johnny, a little Amish* boy from the Pennsylvania Dutch* area, and it described vividly the customs, dress, food, and daily activities of the Amish.
My life had been spent in Georgia and Florida. I knew nothing of the Amish, had never seen an Amish person, had never tasted a Pennsylvania Dutch dish. What on earth is shoo-fly pie? A custard pie? A savory meat concoction* like shepherd's pie? The little story had mentioned shoo-fly pie, but had failed to list the ingredients. I doubted the wisdom of experimenting with strange, exotic foods in the middle of a serious illness. However, it was the only food Bobby had requested and maybe it was worth trying. Whatever was in it, it was probably not going to stay in him long enough to do any harm.
         Having made the decision to act on Bobby's request, I set about locating a recipe. The Leon County Library did not have a book on Pennsylvania Dutch cookery and neither did the State Library. The library at Florida State University had such a cookbook, but it was in use and not due back for two weeks. I called nearby bookstores. They had no Pennsylvania Dutch cookbooks. I called my neighbours, friends, relatives. Some of them had heard of shoo-fly pie, but none of them knew what it was.
         Bobby, there isn't a recipe for shoo-fly pie in this town. I'm just as sorry as I can be. After you are well, we will try again, but right now we are going to have to do with what we can get. I'm going to the grocery store now and try to find something easy for you to eat. Your grandfather will sit with you while I'm gone."
         What store are you going to, Mama? I'll ask God to send you a recipe there. He'll send you one!"
Oh, no, Bobby!" I said. In alarm, I thought, Bobby, please don't do that!" I couldn't bear the thought of his faith being disappointed. And I felt there was obviously no way for God to provide a recipe in a grocery store. I had already tried all the likely places. I didn't want Bobby to pray for the impossible. But his child-like faith persisted.
         God will know how to send you a recipe, Mama. Are you going to Winn-Dixie?"
         Yes, I'm going to Winn-Dixie. I'll be back soon with something good."
         In Winn-Dixie I pushed my shopping cart, filling it with red and green Jello, butterscotch pudding, chicken noodle soup. And then, nearing the checkout counter, I stood still, not believing what I saw.
         Walking in the door were two women, one wearing a black prayer cap, the other a white one, just like the pictures in Yonie Wondernose. Hurrying toward them, I asked, Are you Amish?"
         Yes, we are Amish."
         And do you know how to make shoo-fly pie?"
         Of course. All Amish women know how to make shoo-fly pie."
         Could you write me a recipe?"
         Why, yes, certainly. If you have paper, I'll write it down, and then we will help you find the things you need to make a nice pie."
         As we walked around gathering brown sugar, molasses, and spices, I asked them if they lived in Tallahassee.
Oh, goodness, no! We are just passing through. We have been down in Southern Florida and are on our way back home to Pennsylvania. I don't know why we stopped in here, but all of a sudden, my companion said,          `Let's stop at that Winn-Dixie.' So here we are. I really don't know why we came in."
         Awestruck, humbled, and ashamed, I knew why. Bobby had asked--and received.
         When I walked into the living room with the groceries, Bobby said, You got the recipe God sent, didn't you, Mama?"
         The recipe made not one, but two large shoo-fly pies. Bobby ate almost the whole pie during the late afternoon and early evening and drank several cups of weak tea. Moreover, he retained all he ate and drank. The pie, high in carbohydrates, provided energy, and the tea replaced lost body fluids. By morning, Bobby was able to drink fruit juices and eat poached eggs and toast. His improvement thereafter was rapid and dramatic.
         And so, after all these years there's a letter I want to write which I pray may be recognised by two ladies who may read this story:
Dear Amish Ladies,
         This story is really a long-overdue letter to you. It should have been written immediately after this incident, which happened so many years ago. Please forgive me for not getting your names and address-es. How could I have been so preoccupied* with my problems that I failed to provide myself with the means of thanking you two for the parts you played in this drama?
Perhaps you regarded it as a trivial* incident and pushed it away into the vast storehouse of forgetfulness. I want to jog* your memory. You had been on a trip to Florida with friends and were driving back home. You passed through the business district of Tallahassee, Florida when you came to a Winn-Dixie on your right. Do you remember?
I want you to remember, because for me this was not a happenstance*, a coincidence. Through the years, when my faith has faltered, when cynicism has threatened me, I find myself thinking of a very sick child praying a simple prayer that he knew would be answered.          Unlike me, Bobby wasn't concerned with how God was going to go about it; he trusted in His infinite power. It reminds me that I cannot put my own human limitations on God, for with Him all things are possible. Thank you, dear Amish ladies, for being His messengers.
The Girl Who Was Frozen Solid
By Jean Hilliard Vig
         I grabbed my purse and the car keys, threw on my new green waist-length parka, and started toward the door. Mom called, Jean, aren't you going to take your boots and snowmobile pants? It's supposed to get colder tonight."
         I'd lived on a farm in northern Minnesota all my life and was used to cold weather. I'll be fine, Mom. Just driving into town to meet some friends. It's not that cold."
         I was nineteen years old and thought cowboy boots and blue jeans were more appropriate than warm clothing for a night out with friends. Besides, I had no idea that in just a few hours the temperature would plummet to twenty-five degrees below zero with gusts of fifty-mile-an-hour blizzard winds.
         Around midnight, after a fun evening in Fosston with my friends, I was driving home in Dad's big white Ford LTD. I usually took the four-wheel-drive pickup, but tonight it was low on gas and Dad had said I could take the car.
Heading home, the snow sparkled festively in the beams of my headlights. I decided to take the old country gravel road because it was a few miles shorter than the blacktop*. Besides, I had always loved that road. It meandered* through a forest of tall pines. Every couple of miles a house or a farm dotted the landscape, but the rest was pure picture-postcard scenery--icy-blue Minnesota lakes, tall trees, and the narrow, winding, hilly gravel road.
         I didn't see the small patch of ice in the middle of the road because of the new snow. Before I knew what was happening, the car skidded off to the side and the front wheel slid precariously* close to the ditch. I tried to back up slowly, but the tires were spinning. When I put the car in forward gear the front tire slipped off the shoulder and the car became helplessly marooned*.
         I wasn't frightened, but I surely was disgusted! I could just hear Dad's booming voice when he found out what I had done with his good car.
         I knew there was a house a half mile or so ahead, so I got out of the car, slammed the door, and stomped off down the road, forgetting my hat on the front seat.
         I was steaming over the mess I had gotten myself into, and my anger kept me warm for a few hundred feet. The wind forced me to zip up my jacket collar over my nose and mouth. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and dug into the snow in my pointy-toed leather cowboy boots.
         I walked on a little farther and then remembered Wally's place, in the opposite direction, so I turned around. It should be just a half mile, or so, I thought. Wally was an acquaintance of my folks and I knew he had a four-wheel-drive truck and could pull my car out of the ditch easily.
         I trudged on. After a half mile or so, I passed a house. It was dark and there were no tracks in the driveway. Probably out of town, I thought.
I walked on another half mile or more. The next house was also dark and the driveway filled with snow without a tire track to be seen. (I found out later that both of these families were home that night and that the wind had blown the snow over all the tracks an hour or so before I became stranded.)
         I pressed on. The wind whipped and whistled through the pines. My feet were starting to bother me. My dressy high-heeled cowboy boots were not meant for hiking. Why had I taken the shortcut? At least on the blacktop there would be cars on the road this time of night.
         I struggled up another hill. Finally, I thought I saw Wally's farm in the distance. Yes! There was the long lane leading to his house. I was breathing harder. And then...I blanked out.
         Although I don't remember it, apparently I half-walked, half-stumbled, falling at times, down that long lane. I crawled the last hundred feet or so on my hands and knees, but I don't remember doing that either.
         By now, the wind chill factor was seventy to eighty degrees below zero. Right at Wally's front door I collapsed and fell face forward into the snow. And that's where I lay all night.
         The next morning Wally came out his front door just before seven o'clock. Normally he didn't go to work until eight but, thank God, he decided to go in early that morning. Wally saw my body in the snow, leaned down and tried to find a pulse. There was none. My swollen face was a gray, ashen colour. My eyes were frozen open. I wasn't breathing.
Wally still doesn't know how he managed to pick me up and get me into his car. He said it was like struggling with a 120-pound cordwood* stick.
         At the hospital in Fosston, Wally yelled through the emergency room doorway for help. He picked me up under my arms and a couple of nurses lifted my ankles. My body didn't bend anywhere.
         As they were putting me on a stretcher, one nurse exclaimed, She's frozen solid!" Another nurse, the mother of one of my best friends, said, I think it's Jean Hilliard! I recognise her blond hair and the green jacket!"
         Mrs. Rosie Erickson, who works in bookkeeping, ran out in the hall when she heard the commotion. She leaned over my body. Wait! Listen!" A hush fell around my stretcher. It's a moaning sound...coming from her throat! Listen!"
         I was wheeled into the emergency room. Dr. George Sather, our family doctor, was on duty that morning. He was unable to hear any breathing or a heartbeat with his stethoscope*. Then he attached a heart monitor, which picked up a very slow, faint heartbeat. A cardiologist* said it seemed to be a dying heart."
         We have to get these boots off! Bring some blankets! She's still alive!" The emergency room sprang to life. My boots and jacket were the only clothing items they could get off immediately. The rest of my clothes were frozen on me.
         When they cut my jeans off, the staff saw that my feet were black and there were black areas on my legs and lower back. My feet and legs were swollen. The tissue damage seemed so severe that when my parents arrived, Dr. Sather told them that if I did live, my legs might have to be amputated*. He wanted my parents to be prepared.
Dr. Sather ordered oxygen, and a nurse suggested trying Aqua-Kpads" which were a new kind of water-filled heating pad that had arrived at the hospital just the day before. Quickly the nurses unpacked one heating pad box after another. Fortunately, the only nurse on the staff who knew how to connect them to the special water-filled machines was on duty and she directed the operation.
         My body was frozen so hard that they couldn't even give me a shot to speed the thawing process or to prevent infection. But the medical team didn't know what Rosie Erickson was about to do.
         Rosie found my parents in the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Hilliard, do you mind if I put Jean on the prayer chain at our church?"
         Mom, who was completely bewildered* at the scene before her, answered, quickly, Yes, please do!"
         Mrs. Erickson hurried to her office and made a phone call to the prayer-chain chairman at the Baptist church where her husband is pastor. The prayer chain was set in motion. The first person on the list called the second. That person called the third and so on.
         My heart started beating slightly faster. Even though still far slower than the normal rate of about seventy-two times a minute, the doctors were overjoyed. Slowly I started breathing on my own.
         The prayer chain was lengthening. Mrs. Erickson called the pastors of the Lutheran, Catholic, Methodist, and Bethel Assembly churches in Fosston. They, in turn, called the chairmen of their prayer chain groups, who passed the word along.
         During the first hours that the prayer chain was under way, my legs and feet, instead of getting darker as Dr. Sather expected, started to lighten and regain their natural colour. One after another, the doctors and nurses filed in to marvel at the pinkish tinge appearing at the line of demarcation* where the darkness started. (That was the line on my upper thighs where Dr. Sather said he thought they might have to amputate.)
         The prayer chain spread to the nearby towns of Crookston and Bemidji, and Grand Forks, North Dakota. Soon hundreds, then thousands of people were aware that a young woman had been brought in to the Fosston hospital frozen solid and was in desperate need of God's miraculous healing.
         One of the nurses, on her way to get more blankets, poked her head into Mrs. Erickson's doorway and said, She might make it! Her legs are starting to regain colour at the top! And her heart is beating stronger!"
         Mrs. Erickson looked up at the clock and thought, The prayer chain is in full swing now. God is answering those prayers already. Of course she's going to make it!
         At that moment the whole attitude in my hospital room changed. Now, instead of She probably won't survive," the feeling was Perhaps she'll live, but she will surely lose her legs from the knees down."
         Before noon that day, I stiffened and moaned a word that sounded like Mom." My mother and oldest sister Sandra stayed near my bed, holding, squeezing, and patting my hands. Jean, Jean, wake up! Jeannie, can you hear me? It's Mom. Sandra's here too. Jeannie, we love you. Jeannie, can you hear?" Around noon I mumbled a few words to them.
         All over the area the prayer chain was continuing.
By mid-afternoon I woke up and started thrashing in bed. All day the nurses and doctors watched in amazement as the blackness in my legs and feet disappeared inch by inch.
         By late afternoon Dr. Sather thought perhaps my legs would be saved and that only my feet might have to be amputated. A few hours later he was astounded to realise that perhaps it would be just my toes.
         In the end I did not lose any part of my body! Normal colour and circulation came back to all of my legs, feet, and toes.
         Dr. Sather had also thought he would have to do numerous skin grafts* where huge blisters covered my toes. But these places healed too without skin grafting.
         Indeed, after watching my body become whole again, I am convinced that a miracle did occur. Even Dr. Sather said, I just took care of her. God healed her."
         The doctors kept me in the hospital a while to make sure of my recovery from frostbite* and to lessen the possibility of any infection in my toes. And that entire time I never once experienced any fear. I am convinced it was the prayer chain that kept me calm and filled me with a positive faith that I would be healed.
The night I nearly froze to death was on December 20, 1980. Since then I met a wonderful man, got married, and had two beautiful children. My husband, children, and I live on a farm outside Fosston, and my life is a tranquil, happy one. But I often think about the night I nearly froze to death.
I've become a different person because of that experience. Last winter, I joined forces with a civil defense* expert, an army sergeant, a highway patrolman, and a doctor from Crookston who is an expert in hypothermia (the condition of body temperature dropping below normal). We give talks to people in different towns and counties around here about Winter survival. I tell them my story and point out what can happen when you go out in the Winter unprepared for the weather.
         I am surprised I can do this because when I was in high school I was absolutely terrified of speech class. The thought of standing in front of people with all eyes on me almost made me sick to my stomach. But now I feel none of that fear. I am proud to share my story with the hope that I can help even one person avoid the mistakes I made.
         I believe this is the reason God spared me--so that I can help other people learn how to survive the changeable and very cold winters.
         I've changed in other ways too. My family and I are much closer now. I appreciate every day I'm alive. I have an enormous respect for the power of prayer, as I believe that the prayer chains saved my life. Thousands of people I didn't even know bombarded Heaven with powerful prayer requests in my behalf, and against all medical odds I survived. I not only lived, I survived as a completely normal, whole human being without even so much as a skin graft! In fact, unlike most other people who have suffered from frostbite, I now experience no unusual ill effects from the cold.
         As one minister reminded me in the hospital when we spoke of the prayer chain, we, as God's children have been commanded to pray without ceasing" (1Thessalonians 5:17).
         And I am sure that was what caused my miracle--all those people praying unceasingly for me.
The Premonition
By J. V. Calvert
What is it, Lord? What's this weird feeling that something unpleasant is waiting for me down the road?"
As usual, I was talking to my Friend as I drove through the muggy* August night at 3:00 a.m., hauling 48,000 pounds of steel in my eighteen-wheel rig*.
         I knew nothing mechanical was wrong. As careful truckers* do, I had done a thorough job of checking everything before leaving on this round-trip run between Forth Worth and Bryan, Texas. The only thing I had found to worry me was a creepy spider skittering across the dashboard. I'm six foot two and fifty-two years old, but I'm a baby about spiders. Using my leather driving gloves, I'd brushed it out of the cab.
         But now this strange sixth sense was telling me that I ought to be extra careful, extra wide-awake. I had never had it before, and I kept trying to turn it over to the Lord.
         Lord Jesus. You're my Friend, and I know You want what's best for all Your children. So now I ask You to ride this run with me--sit really close; keep me alert; help me get rid of this crazy feeling that's bugging me. I give You the honour and the glory."
         A lot of truckers are big on CB-radio talk for passing the time. I would rather talk to the Lord. I had grown up in a family where talking to Him and singing His praises were as natural as breathing. So on the long, dark, lonesome runs I make for Central Freight Lines, it is second nature for me to ask Him to keep me company. Each night I always pray and sing the old familiar hymns. Doing that helps me feel ready for any surprises that might come my way. But this night I couldn't seem to relax.
         By 6:45 a.m. I had picked up my return load of 43,000 pounds of bleach and was on my way back to Fort Worth. I planned to make my usual breakfast stop at the Dixie Cafe. But when I got there and parked, that sneaky uneasiness wouldn't let me go in. Don't stop now, came the urging. Keep on moving down the road.
         I sat still a few seconds, trying to resist it, thinking about juice and eggs and coffee. Then my hand reached for the ignition switch.
         With something like a groan, I began to ease the rig out of the parking lot. J. V, I told myself, you can handle a truck just fine, but this fool thing going on in your head is something else. And then I prayed, Please, Lord, I'm counting on You to stay here in this cab with me."
         Out on Highway 6, I concentrated on the road. Only two lanes wide, it didn't give a tractor trailer much room for manoeuvering*. Unconsciously, I began to sing again; Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so........." I hadn't sung that since I was a little kid.
         About thirty miles from Waco, I glanced in my side-view mirror and saw a trucker coming up fast on my tail. He was in an empty truck or he wouldn't have been able to highball* it like that. Since I was hauling a slow, heavy load, I pulled over to let the empty truck overtake me. As the driver whizzed by, he raised his hand in the traditional signal that says, Thanks, good buddy." Soon he was three hundred yards down the highway.
         And then it happened. Sitting high in my cab, thirteen feet off the ground, I had a bird's-eye view of the trucker's nightmare unfolding in front of me. In a flash, something happened and his big rig went out of control. It reeled across the wrong side of Highway 6 and careened* along the shoulder. Then, on a slight incline some seventy-five yards off the highway, it flipped over, jack-knifed* and turned bottom-side up. I heard a monstrous VROOM, as if a giant match had been struck! Fire and black smoke mushroomed from the cab area.
I had already stopped my rig a safe distance away. Now I raced down the highway, my knees pumping like pistons*. Oh, Lord, have mercy!" I prayed as I charged toward the fiery cab.
         When I came around the truck and saw the driver, I thought he was a goner. His bleeding head and shoulders were wedged in the broken window behind the steel supporting braces of the big side mirror. The braces were bent so they formed prison bars, and the bottom of the mirror was embedded deep in the ground.
         Oh, Lord, have mercy! Give me the power to yank that stuff loose!"
         Just then, the man moaned and I knew he was alive. I took a deep breath, grabbed the mess of steel braces and half-buried mirror, and jerked it with all my strength. Unbelievably, the whole thing broke free!
         Please, Jesus, don't let him be stuck in that flaming cab!
         You're gonna have to try and help me, buddy," I pleaded. The trucker's arms were pinned to his sides, but he began to move.
         That's it! Keep wiggling!" I pulled and eased him out of the cab window frame onto the ground.
         Oh, Lord, let us get away from this truck before its gas tanks explode!
         I helped the man up, and he began stumbling up the incline on his own. But he was in shock, covered with blood, dirt, and shattered glass--and he collapsed on the grass almost immediately. We had to get farther away.
It was then I looked up, acutely* aware that something very unusual was going on. The wind was out of the south, more than just a breeze. Fire and smoke should have been billowing in our direction. In fact, the wind should have blown fire and smoke directly on me as I was dragging the driver out of his burning cab. But it hadn't. Instead, I could see the smoke swirling straight up, arching over the truck and over us--and coming down in the middle of the highway like a rainbow. How long could it last?
         Frantically, I helped the man get up again. Just as we reached a safe distance about fifty yards away, the gas tanks blew, incinerating* the tractor trailer as if it were just a wad of dry paper. And at that instant, the smoke and fire began blowing the way they should have all along--igniting* the area we had left only seconds before.
         Thank You, Almighty Lord!"
         Suddenly people began appearing out of nowhere, beating out the grass fire, and then gathering around us--another truck driver, motorists who had stopped. In the distance, I could hear an ambulance siren.
Someone showed up with a first-aid kit. Other people started picking glass out of the man's shirt and cleaning him up. The ambulance arrived. So did the highway patrol and a local fire department. My job was done.
         As I was walking toward my truck, a bystander caught up with me. Hey, you saved that man's life! No one else had the guts to go near that truck--scared it would blow any second."
         I thought for a minute and then I started to chuckle. You think I've got guts? Why, man, you're looking at a guy who's scared of a little spider!"
I shook my head. I don't want the credit," I told him. I just try to stay close in touch with Jesus. So when I need help, He's there to give it. He gave me the push and the strength and a couple of miracles this morning, and He gets all the glory."
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 each story, but please choose those which most apply & 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 & 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 & ask God to do?
5. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
6. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
7. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
8. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people involved? Did it bring a change in their lives?
9. Discuss the answers to prayer in this story.
10. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
11. 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?
Definitions
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story & does not cover every meaning of the word.)
acutely: sharply
Amish: a Protestant sect that teaches separation from the World & personal simplicity as a way of life. Amish men wear beards & wide-brimmed hats & women wear plain long dresses & bonnets. They till the soil with horses & their rules forbid the use of electricity & telephones. They limit education to the eighth grade. Those who break with the sect often join the Mennonites who hold basically the same beliefs as the Amish, but whose rules are not as strict. (See definition of Pennsylvania Dutch, below.)
amputate: to cut off a portion of the body
apparition: a supernatural sight, like a ghost or spirit
audible: loud enough to be heard
barge: a strong flat-bottomed boat for carrying freight
berate: to scold sharply
bewildered: completely confused
blacktop: a highway covered with asphalt, a black tar-like substance, mixed with crushed rock
bobbed: appeared suddenly
buoyed: held up, kept from sinking
cardiologist: a medical expert on the heart & its diseases
careen: to lean to one side, tip
charred: burned to charcoal
civil defense: a non-military program designed to save lives, providing assistance in emergencies such as blizzards, earthquakes, floods etc., & even in case of terrorist attacks
comprehend: understand the meaning of
concoction: something mixed together
cordwood: timber used for firewood
dehydrated: physical condition where the body has lost water & is drying out
demarcation: distinction or separation
domestic: of the home or household affairs
exultant: triumphant, very happy
frostbite: injury to the skin when ice crystals form in it, from being frozen
grizzled: grey or partly grey
gutted: destroyed on the inside
happenstance: a chance occurence, accident
highball: to travel rapidly
hull: the outer covering
hysterical: crying or otherwise emotionally out of control
igniting: to set on fire
incinerating: to burn to ashes
incredulous: not ready to believe, skeptical
instinctively: done without thinking, by instinct
iridescent: displaying all the colours of the rainbow, in shifting shades & patterns, like soap bubbles or mother-of-pearl on the inside of some seashells
jack-knifed: to double up like a jack-knife (pocket knife)
jog: nudge or push along
luminescent: giving off light without being heated very much
maelstrom: a powerful, violent whirlpool
manoeuvering: driving, with difficult movements
marooned: left in a desolate place with no hope of rescue
meandered: followed a winding course
muggy: warm & humid
Pennsylvania Dutch: Groups of settlers came from Germany & Switzerland in the 1600's & 1700's, fleeing intolerance & religious persecution. They settled in Pennsylvania, making up almost half the population there by 1750, & their genius for farming made the area a garden spot. Originally belonging to the Lutheran or Reformed movement, the groups included Amish, Mennonites, & Moravians. Noted for their simple dress & distrust of formal church traditions, today they are called the plain people" & live mostly in Lancaster county. They are not from the Netherlands, but are called Dutch", because the word Deutsch", which means German", was mispronounced.
piston: a motor part that moves up & down very fast
precariously: not safe or secure, risky, dangerous
preoccupied: deep in thought
profound: deep
prow: the pointed front part of a ship
pungent: sharply affecting the taste or smell
rain-studded: with rain scattered throughout it like little sharp points
random: without beat or order
resuscitation: reviving someone who is unconscious
rig: a large truck & trailer
riveted: fixed firmly
rumpled: wrinkled, disordered
scudded: to run before a storm (a nautical term)
seething: foaming as if boiling
skiff: a small, light, open boat
skin grafts: a portion of healthy skin removed from one area of the body & attached to another area, by surgery, to replace skin destroyed by a burn or other injury
smoulder: to burn & smoke without flame
squall: a sudden rise in the wind, often with rain, hail or snow
stethoscope: instrument used by doctors to listen to heartbeat, or other sounds in the body
stunned: dazed, shocked, overwhelmed
subsiding: dying down, becoming less
transfixed: motionless or helpless (with amazement)
treading water: keeping your head above water by moving your legs in a motion like running
trivial: of little importance
trough: channel or gutter
truckers: men who drive trucks for a living
uncanny: weird, eerie
unnerved: deprived of strength or firmness
wane: losing strength