Christian Leadership Training Program, CLTP 7, DFO
Power and Protection!
True Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 5

(Recommended Reading for 9 years and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults' discretion.)
(Stories courtesy of "The Best of Guideposts", & "It Must Have Been an Angel" by Marjorie Lewis Lloyd.)

Saved by a Psalm
By Kathleen Baker-Gumprecht
         It was a clear, beautiful morning on the West Mesa, a stretch of desert 29 kilometres northwest of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Preparing for my second solo flight, I was checking the equipment in Skybird, the hot-air balloon I had bought. I needed three more flight hours to take my test for a full pilot's license. But more than anything that morning, I just wanted to get away from all the hassles of life on the ground.
         All balloonists need earthbound helpers, and five friends had volunteered to inflate my 7-1/2 story nylon balloon. Because balloons are at the mercy of prevailing winds once aloft, planned navigation can be difficult. Therefore a balloonist also needs a crew on the ground to chase after him and assist following the landing.
         "Okay," I called, ready for liftoff. The crew members who'd been holding down Skybird stepped away, and I was airborne. My friends waved and made a beeline for their pickup truck.
         Learning to fly had been a girlhood dream. I grew up in Albuquerque, home of the International Balloon Fiesta, the largest annual gathering of its kind in the world. During those fiestas, I would rise early to join the spectators at the launch field. Then one day I got my wish: a balloon ride of my own. Floating high above the city, I felt ethereal [1], released from time and worries.
         Now the tick-ticking of the burner on Skybird snapped me back to reality, reminding me it was cooling. A hot-air balloon operates on a simple principle. Air inside the nylon fabric "envelope"--the balloon itself--is heated by a propane burner, causing the balloon to rise. The burner is regulated by the pilot in the basket suspended below the envelope. The duration of the "burns" and the interval between them determine if the balloon will ascend or maintain level flight. When the pilot wishes to descend, he can allow the air in the envelope to cool naturally, or he can descend faster by releasing air through a special vent in the envelope.
         It's not quite as easy as it sounds. But I was learning quickly. When my instructor talked about the dangers of the sport, I barely heard him. Those warnings were for pilots who were careless or unsure of themselves, I told myself.
         I glanced at Skybird's instruments. The flight was going well. A sense of well-being enveloped me. A thousand feet below, that vast rocky, dry land stretched beyond the horizon. But just then, I spotted a dust devil, or miniature tornado [2], rising in a twisting, dirty column in the distance. I froze. Dust devils are a balloonist's biggest worry. If a balloon drifts into one of these miniature tornadoes, their sudden updrafts and downdrafts can hurtle it several thousand feet, the envelope twisting uselessly in the turbulence [3] and the basket buffeted like a feather in a gale. It was time to get out of the sky.
         I signalled to my ground crew in the pickup below that I was landing. Skybird drifted gently downward. I picked out a landing area and concentrated on aiming for that spot.
         I wasn't aware of the pickup's horn blasting until Skybird's basket had nearly touched down. The ground crew was screaming and pointing behind me. Something was wrong! I wheeled around. A huge dark pillar of swirling dirt and tumbleweeds [4] was rising from the desert floor, spiralling upwards and towering beyond my view. I had drifted directly into the path of another dust devil that had formed behind me!
         On top of my balloon was a deflation panel, held in place by a strip of Velcro. At the conclusion of a flight this panel is pulled open, allowing all the hot air to rush out. The deflation panel in my type of balloon is never used in flight because it can be put back in place only on the ground. "But", my mind raced desperately, "if I can deflate the balloon before the devil reaches me, I'll be safe."
         I grabbed the rope attached to the deflation panel, pulling with all my might. I heard a welcome, "pop". Part of the panel had pulled free. "I've almost got it!" I thought. "Only a little bit more." But just as I was about to count my blessings, I was hurled violently to the floor of the basket. I slammed against one of the propane tanks. I struggled back to my feet and held on as Skybird rocketed upward.
         Above me the envelope twisted, caved inward, then snapped back out with a sound like a rifle shot. The altimeter [5] showed 4,000 feet above ground level, and Skybird was still climbing. High above me, the deflation panel was still partially open. A tiny crescent of blue sky showed through.
         "This is it," I thought. I was to be one of those balloonists who die in terrible crashes. How long before more of the deflation panel gave way and Skybird and I plummeted to Earth?
         The balloon pitched left. A few more centimetres of Velcro ripped loose. Suddenly all my problems back on Earth seemed small compared to this nightmare! Life, with all its heartaches and its failures, was precious now. I slumped numbly to the bottom of the spinning basket and covered my head with my arms.
         But into my mind rushed the words of a Psalm I had learned as a child: "And call upon Me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee" (Psalm 50:15). I had called on God a lot lately, but things just hadn't seemed to get any better for me. Now I really had a problem, one I didn't think I could do anything to solve. I seized the verse as a drowning person clutches a rope.
         "Help me, God!" I cried. "I don't know what to do!"
         Suddenly I knew I wasn't alone. A Presence was with me. I felt calmed. Strength poured through me. Something urged me to work the burner and add more heat to the envelope, though this didn't seem to make any sense. After all, I was already spiralling upward.
         But the feeling was insistent, so I struggled to my feet and opened the burner valve. As the air heated, the sides of the envelope pushed outward. The deflation panel was no longer being pulled and stressed. The Velcro strip was holding! "It's working!" I whispered.
         I burned carefully every time the envelope began to look loose and floppy. Imperceptibly at first, the balloon began to level off. The twirling motion slowed and stopped. I held my breath, then realised I had flown right out of the top of the dust devil.
         "Thank You, God," I said.
         Fifteen minutes later, I made a bumpy landing. When I stepped out on the ground again, I knew I was a different person from the one who had left it less than an hour before.
         I had faced death, and now I felt I was ready to face life straight on. Yes, I still had problems. But flying away in my balloon and expecting God to solve them availed me nothing. That morning God showed me He was there--to give me strength when I most needed Him. But it was I who had to struggle to my feet and open the burner valve. I was the one who had to act, who had to have faith.
         I still fly Skybird, but my attitude is different now. As I'm suspended alone in the silent sky, my balloon no longer carries me away from my earthly problems. It takes me a little closer to God.

Glimpses from Beyond
         I'm a sound sleeper. Only thirst or a headache ever wakes me up. A car speeding past, a dog barking, a passing thunderstorm--I can sleep through almost anything. But for no apparent reason I woke up with a start one cool Fall night.
         At first I thought it was time to get up. No, my clock showed 1:00 a.m. I listened. All was still, yet I felt as though I had awakened for some reason. I sat on the side of the bed, bolt upright. Several minutes passed. The bedroom windows were closed and the curtains drawn. No noise from the outside. There was total silence.
         Then I heard, distinctly, a man's voice: "Help me, help me! Oh, please help me!"
         The voice sounded like it was in the room with me. "Help me, help me! Oh, please help me!"
         Immediately I called the police emergency number. "Someone needs help," I said, "out near my street." I told the police dispatcher [6] where I lived, and satisfied that I had done all I could, I went back to bed.
         Even before I fell asleep, the police dispatcher called me back. She sounded incredulous [7]. "How did you know someone was there?" she asked.
         "I heard his cries," I said.
         "But how could you?" she asked. She knew my apartment was set well back from the street. My windows were closed and I hadn't heard the police drive by. "The man you heard," she explained, "was trapped in a car at the bottom of a ravine nearly two blocks away."
         "I heard him," I said. Somehow I heard him.--Virginia Ann Van Seters
*
         The year is 1939. The place is an 80-acre dairy farm outside the small town of Chehalis, Washington, 16 miles from the nearest doctor or hospital. A little girl, an 18-month-old toddler dressed in overalls, slams the screen door as she ambles out onto the back porch to play in the sunshine. Her mother is inside the house, cleaning.
         Outdoors on this warm Spring morning the world is full of delights to explore. The youngster runs through the dewy grass, picks dandelions and carries them back to the house. On the porch an old enameled kettle sitting in the sun catches her eye. It is filled with peas soaking in an arsenic [8] solution, something that will prevent them from rotting when planted. Back then, seeds weren't pretreated as most are today.
         The little girl is fascinated with the liquid in the kettle. Taking a battered tin cup, she dips it in the pot, fills it with the liquid, then lifts it.
         Just then her mother hears a voice calling her, "Ella, Ella, come quick!" She follows the voice through the house and out the back door where she spots the little girl, the cup at her lips. Frantic, she grabs the toddler and empties the cup. She wipes the little girl's lips, but no, the youngster hasn't had a drop of the poison. The mother arrived just in time.
         I know this story well because I was the little girl, and the woman who rescued me was my mother. And as for the voice, Mother recognised it right away. It belonged to her mother, my grandmother. The mystery? My grandmother had died the year before, six months after I was born.--Lois Bunker Woods.
*
         Here in South Korea, where I'm stationed with the U.S. military, I recently met Ms. Kyong Cha Lee, a woman who had suffered a terrible loss.
         Ms. Lee's house, like many older homes in Korea, is heated by large charcoal briquettes placed under the floor. During a cold spell last Spring this primitive heating system malfunctioned, spreading poisonous carbon monoxide fumes throughout the house, almost killing Ms. Lee.
         She lay in the hospital in a coma for days, with her family at her bedside. When she finally awoke, they were too grieved to tell her the extent of her loss. But she astonished them when she said she already knew her two children had been killed in the tragedy. "The doctor told me when he came to look after me," she explained.
         "What doctor?" they asked.
         "The doctor who prayed by my side and promised that God would watch over me."
         They assured her they had seen no such visitor and they had been with her constantly. The physician must have been a dream, they said.
         When Ms. Lee was well enough to go home, she was making her way out of the hospital when she caught sight of a portrait in the lobby. "There," she said, "that's the doctor who came to my bedside. What is his name?" "Jesus Christ," came the answer.--Sam Nix
* * *
Lost in the Amazon
By Brad L. Smith
         As the flood-swollen river snaked its way through the jungle, so did the little plane, hugging every curve and bend. A wing dipped to one side and then the other as pilot Bill Lubkemann looked left and then right. His eyes raked the dense canopy [9] for anything--a patch of white T-shirt, the glint from an aluminum canoe, the frantic motion of a man's arms.
         Every hour diminished the chances of finding anyone alive. Two men lost in the jungle when the Amazon is at flood stage? It was hopeless.
         Only days before, Curt Kirsch and Milton Camargo, two Brazilian missionaries, were travelling up the Uraricoera River with two Indian guides. They were on their sixth day of a canoe trip from the mission's headquarters to the remote village of Maitas. It would have been just over an hour to fly to the village, but Maitas had no airstrip. The journey had to be made by canoe.
         Lubkemann, while on another flight, had received a radio message: "The two Indians who were with Milton and Curt have just arrived--in a different canoe." There was a pause, and then missionary Denise Santiago's voice faltered. "Our mission's canoe overturned in the rapids below here on Sunday.... Everything went to the bottom of the river, and--Curt and Milton lost their lives."

         OUT OF SIGHT. By radio, the missionary headquarters managed to get more details: the Indians had not actually seen Milton and Curt die. They had only seen them swept over the rapids and out of sight.
         But this was only a small ray of hope. Even if they had somehow managed to escape the torrential river, how would they ever be found in the thousands of miles of jungle? How would they survive with no provisions? And what if they were injured?
         Radio messages went out until hundreds of Christians were praying for the missing men. Meanwhile, Missionary Aviation Fellowship pilots and fellow missionaries prepared for a systematic and intensive air search and ground rescue.
         Intensive searching is what it would take. The rainy season had flooded the river to record levels. The section where the accident occurred was a swollen labyrinth [10] of canals, islands, and swamps 20 miles wide and 50 miles long. There wasn't even a place for a man to stand and wave--all the riverbanks were submerged. The water extended far into the jungle under the dense foliage [11]. There was little likelihood of ever finding the lost missionaries, dead or alive.

         SURVIVAL IN THE JUNGLE. Curt and Milton were alive, though barely. As he was being swept over the raging rapids, Curt managed to grab an empty gasoline can as a life preserver. He also managed to snag the rope of the canoe and a small duffel bag as they went careening by.
         Milton was sucked into a whirlpool. Under water, without even light filtering through, Milton knew he was going to die. In his final moments of consciousness, he cried out to the Lord. The next thing he remembers, he was back on the surface.
         Wet, exhausted, but grateful to be alive, the missionaries found a mound of relatively dry land. For long moments they sat, neither speaking, trying to catch their breaths between convulsive [12] coughs.
         When they found the strength, they pulled the canoe ashore. It was bent double like a fortune cookie [13]. But the motor, though damaged, was still attached. When the men flipped over the canoe, they found two cans of gas.
         What the two missionaries did not have were tools, food, or a way to make a fire. Their chances of survival were minimal. But at least they had the contents of a duffle bag: a small hammock, a blanket, and extra underwear.
         As the rescue operation got underway, pilot Bill Lubkemann picked up one of the Indians to help identify the river route. Unless the missionaries were spotted from the air, there would be no way of looking for them.
         In the air, Bill periodically reported in: "The Indian remembers the waterfall under us, so they came this way."
         "Now we're bearing west, but he's not sure this is right."
         "We're going to try the other direction."
"Rain is clouding our vision, so we're turning west."
         On their little island, Milton and Curt spread the spare underwear on a rock in the river, hoping a plane might see it. But that night, the river rose and washed it away.
         They cut leaves and saplings with their teeth and with jagged rocks and fashioned a crude shelter. For food, they killed a small alligator with large sticks. But after tearing off the iron-hard skin with their teeth, they discovered cold, raw alligator tastes like--cold, raw alligator. They couldn't stomach it. A few small fruits from the jungle were more edible.
         As the days wore on, the men spent hours singing, & quoting Scripture. Both realised they had slipped into the trap of doing the Lord's Work in human pride, instead of in His strength. Lesser things had been infringing on the Lord's presence in their lives.
         Curt managed to disassemble and drain the carburetor [14] and dry the spark plug. After hours of one man alternately praying, and the other one cranking, the motor sputtered to life.
         The next task was to beat the canoe with rocks into a serviceable craft before pushing it around rapids, through mud and jungle undergrowth, to a larger branch of the river. The 400-yard trek took a solid day for the two men who hadn't eaten in five days.
         After one last shove into open water, and a crank of the resurrected engine, they were on their way. The men were surprised at how quickly they were able to maneuver back to the scene of the accident in the oddly-shaped craft.
         Over his cockpit radio, Bill's voice had an edge of despair: "There are literally thousands of places the current could have carried them. You can't imagine how impossible this is."
         Suddenly, almost unintelligibly, Bill shouted: "It's--it's the men! They're in the canoe! Coming up the river. I can't believe it!"
         Bill made a pinpoint air drop of food and medicine. Then he directed the men down the right tributary [15]. A few hours later they stumbled into the waiting arms of the rescue party. The men were "scarecrow-thin, bruised and scratched, sunburned and exhausted" when their families saw them.
         Later, Milton told the other missionaries, "I started on this trip thinking I was the Lord's superman and I came home realising I was a lot closer to being `Balaam's ass.' But I learned the Lord still loved and could use me."
         The two men who came back from the jungle interior were not the same ones who had left 12 days before--and neither were the men and women who had waited and prayed for them. As Curt explained, "Not one of us did the one thing that ensured our successful rescue. The Lord saved us, but graciously allowed all of us to take part in the miracle."
* * *
Now You See Them
(Many years ago before the Communist takeover in China:)
         Pastor Merrit Warren had not been in China long when he made this particular trip. Like most every journey he would take in that country, it was full of danger, leading through a robber infested area.
         He had been travelling several days when he was delayed one afternoon by a stranger who invited him to his home. He had learned that Pastor Warren was a Seventh-day Adventist minister and wanted to ask questions about his belief. Pastor Warren, of course, was glad for the opportunity to talk with one who showed such interest.
         He thought he had plenty of time. The coolies [16] carrying the boxes had gone on. The village of Chintaipu was only five miles away. He could easily ride that distance before dark. As he was leaving, however, his host told him that it was nearly three times that far. He warned him that it was not safe to travel in that region after dark.
         Hastily he mounted his horse and hurried over the low hills. Just at dark he reached a small village along the way. He hoped the coolies would be waiting there. But he learned that they had gone on up the mountain.
         What could he do? The coolies had his food and his bedding. And he must pay for lodging wherever they stopped. He knew now that he was in danger.
         The coolies had his lantern too, and he would have to have a lantern. So he bought a Chinese paper lantern, and the shopkeeper lit it for him.
         But in a little while, as he walked ahead, leading his horse down the slippery stones of the mountain, the candle sputtered and went out. He started to light another, but then he said to himself, "Now look here! You can see better with the lantern, but so can the robbers. If they are following you, the light will help them more than it will help you." So he trudged on, hoping the robbers wouldn't hear the clank of the horse's shoes on the stone steps.
         At the bottom of the mountain he came to a bridge made of stone slabs. He couldn't see what he was crossing--it might be a stream, ravine or a chasm [17]. He could see only the dim trail and the bridge. Beyond the bridge the trail turned to the right and began another ascent.
         About a hundred and fifty feet from the bridge, to his right, Pastor Warren saw a house and a light burning inside. The house was about fifty feet long and seemed to be right alongside the road. A door in the centre opened as he arrived, and two Chinese men came out.
         Pastor Warren had a good excuse for stopping, for he was alone and without a light. Speaking in the humble manner used by the Chinese, he said politely, "May your younger brother borrow a light from his older brother?
         "I shall be glad to give my brother a light," one of the men answered. He stepped inside and returned with a piece of flaming bamboo. When the candle in the lantern had been lit, one of the men asked, "Where are you going?"
         "To Chintaipu."
         "I am travelling that way myself."
         "I shall be honoured to have my older brother lead me," Pastor Warren answered.
         They started off together, talking as they travelled. Merrit asked questions, but he was careful not to say anything that would sound as if he were trying to identify the Chinese man. If the man were a robber, the situation would be dangerous.
         Finally the man said, "There are many robbers through this section, and they are robbing all the time. No one is really safe on this road. I am glad I could come along with you."
         That was strange. The man wore ordinary clothes, the rice-straw sandals of the common peasant. Why would a robber try to rob him? And why was this stranger happy to have a foreigner with him?
         Soon they came to a place where a path branched off. The Chinese said, "I must leave you here."
         "Aren't you going to Chintaipu?"
         "No, I'm turning off here."
         "How much farther is it to Chintaipu?"
         "Not very far. You will be there right away. I am glad I could walk with you."
         When Merrit arrived in the village, he found the people worried about his safety. They told of many travellers who had been robbed. And some had been killed. The young missionary had reason to be thankful--very, very thankful!
         The next time he travelled that way, he was anxious to see by daylight the places where he had walked that dark night. It was all just as he remembered it. The shop where he had bought the lantern. The climb up the mountain. The stone steps down the other side. The ravine with the stone slabs for crossing. As he started up the slope, he looked for the house. No house was there!
         Had the house burned down? "It has to be here! It was a large house, and it stood right here!"
But as he examined that slope, he saw that the ground had never been levelled at any place along the road. It would have been impossible to build a house without levelling a large piece of ground. The hillside had never been disturbed!
         No wonder he stood silently with bowed head. He knew now that an Angel had walked with him that dark night!
* * *
In Time of Peril
         In the early days of Methodism a minister by the name of John Jones was travelling on horseback through a desolate region in northern Wales. On this particular occasion he observed a rough-looking man, armed with a reaping hook [18], following him on the other side of a hedge. Evidently he was aiming to accost [19] the minister at a gate a little way ahead where it would be necessary to dismount.
         John Jones realised that his life was in danger and stopped his horse for a moment of prayer. When he looked up, he saw that a man on a white horse was riding beside him. He told the stranger how relieved he was to have him come along just then, but received no reply. As he continued to watch the reaper, however, he saw him emerge from his concealment [20] and run away across a field. Again he tried to make conversation with the stranger on the horse beside him, but his efforts were met with silence. Finally he said to him, "Can it for a moment be doubted that my prayer was heard and that you were sent for my deliverance by the Lord?" And the horseman responded with a single word, "Amen."
         Not another word would the stranger say. But they were now approaching the gate, and the minister hurried on to dismount and open it. He waited for the man on the white horse to pass through. He didn't. He was gone. He was nowhere in sight!
         He couldn't have passed through the gate. His horse could not have leaped the high hedges on either side of the road. Was it all a figment of his imagination? Had there been no horse and rider at all? But how could a figment of his imagination have frightened away the intended killer?
*
         It happened in the troubled days of the Napoleonic wars. A forester named Grimez had been instrumental in bringing to justice a band of robbers that had brought terror to the region. Only the leader of the band was still at large, and he had sworn to have his revenge upon Grimez.
         The forester was not a religious man. He laughed at his wife's prayers for his safety. He preferred to trust in his weapons and his dogs.
         One evening he was delayed in returning home, and his wife became anxious. Finally she brought the Bible and read aloud to the grandmother these words from the seventy-first Psalm: "In Thee, O Lord, do I put my trust.... Be Thou my strong habitation.... Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand of the unrighteous and cruel man."
         Then the two women knelt and prayed that God would protect the absent husband, and themselves, from danger. And they prayed for the robber whom they so much feared. They asked God to be merciful to him and to turn him from his evil ways.
         Shortly after they rose from their knees, the husband came home. They told him of their concern and of their prayer, but he only smiled and told them it was foolish to think it did any good to pray. He checked to see that doors and windows were securely locked and that his weapons were at hand. And they all slept.
         In the morning when they came downstairs, they found a window open. And on the table where the Bible had been lay a great sharp knife. The Bible was gone. Evidently someone had been in the house, and evidently the intent was murder. The missing Bible must have had something to do with saving them, for nothing else had been taken. The wife thanked God for protection. And this time the husband did not laugh. He could see that neither his dogs nor his guns had saved them. He began to think there was something in religion after all. And the robber was never seen or heard of in that forest again.
         But that isn't all the story. Some time later the French and the Prussians were fighting each other. Among those who fell was the forester, then a captain in the army. His men left him on the field, thinking he was dead. But a fisherman heard his groans and came to his aid. He then took him to his home, and he and his wife nursed him back to health.
         As he was recovering, he thought much about how his life had twice been spared, even though he had been so outspoken in his unbelief. He prayed and gave his heart to the One he had so openly doubted.
         When he was well enough to go home, he thanked the kind fisherman and tried to pay him for his trouble. But the fisherman refused, saying that he was actually more indebted to the forester and his wife than they were to him, and that he had something that belonged to them. He then brought out the Bible that had so mysteriously disappeared.
         "I see you do not recognise me," he said, "but I am the robber that caused such trouble in your neighbourhood till you caught my companions and had them put in prison. I was very angry with you for this and swore to have revenge. I crept into your house after dark one evening, intending to murder you and all your family while you were asleep. All the evening I lay under the settee [21] in your sitting room, waiting for the hour when I could carry out my purpose. Against my will I was obliged to hear the seventy-first Psalm read by your wife. It had a wonderful effect on me. When I heard her prayer, I was more affected. It seemed as if an unseen hand was laid upon me to keep me from doing what I had come to do. I felt that I could not do it. All my desire was to get that Book and read it."
         He went on, "For weeks I kept it hid in the woods near your home. The Bible was my companion; and as I read it, I saw what a great sinner I was, and what a great Saviour there is in Jesus.
         "You, forester, trusted to your guns and dogs; they could not have helped you any. Nothing but God's Word saved you. That was all that kept me from plunging my knife into your bosom. That was all that protected you then; it is all that has saved you from dying on the battlefield now. Don't thank me, but thank the merciful God Who made use of His blessed Word to save both you and me."
* * *
Thou Art My Deliverer...
         In Bohemia, now a part of Czechoslovakia, a man named Dolanscious was arrested for heresy [22] during the time of the Reformation (1500s). He was imprisoned in the city of Prague, where he endured much suffering because of neglect. One day, on the point of starvation, he turned his eyes toward the grate of his prison window and saw a little bird sitting with something in his bill. When he tried to investigate, the bird flew away, leaving a bit of cloth. In that bit of cloth was a piece of gold, with which he was able to buy bread until he was finally released from prison.
*
         Also in Reformation days, a Protestant named Johannes Brenz was taking refuge in the home of Duke Ulric at Stuttgart. But the emperor learned of his whereabouts and commissioned a colonel to produce him dead or alive. The duke, learning of this, sent Brenz away, saying, "If God is pleased with you, He will deliver you."
         In the seclusion of his room Brenz fell on his knees and prayed for guidance. And he seemed to hear a voice saying: "Take a loaf of bread, and go up through the Birkenwald [the upper part of the city]; and where you find an open front door, go in and hide yourself under the roof."
         He found all the doors closed in that part of the city until he came to the Landhouse (later the Reformed church). Here the door was open. He entered and hid himself behind a large pile of wood under the roof.
         The next day soldiers arrived in Stuttgart and searched every house in the city. They came to the Landhouse and searched every room. They even thrust their spears through the woodpile behind which he lay, but they did not find him. Two weeks later they left Stuttgart.
         How did Brenz manage during those two weeks? On the very first day of his concealment, along toward noon, a hen came and laid an egg behind the woodpile. This she did each day. The egg quenched his thirst, and the loaf of bread satisfied his hunger. The hen stopped coming on the day the soldiers left the city.
*
         It is not only for our protection that Angels speak. Sometimes it is to counsel us or to encourage us in a course of action.
         Jack Circle's father, known to his friends as C.F., was a very active and dedicated layman [23]. He was employed for a time by a portrait studio as a sales representative. And whenever possible, in the homes of prospects, he would take the opportunity to witness for his Lord, sometimes leaving a piece of literature or enrolling them in a Bible course.
         One day a lady phoned the office and complained about what he was doing, and his employer told him that he must stop. C.F. was troubled about this development and didn't know just what he should do.
         Not long after that he was given the name of a person interested in photographs and called the address. On this particular morning he was very discouraged about not being able to do his witnessing. As he walked in from the street, he saw a woman at the window waving frantically, apparently at him. She was acting so strangely that he wondered if he should forget about going in. Then she threw the door open and said, "I don't know who you are or what you are doing, but a voice just spoke to me and said to tell you, `Don't stop what you are doing!'"
*
         And then there is the case of Miss Anne Taylor, who entered the forbidden land of Tibet in the year 1890, working there for a time in spite of all efforts to keep her out, to put her out, and to starve her out. The people kept asking her what to do with her body if she died, and she told them she wasn't going to die right then. Finally poison was put in the food she was invited to eat. Her suspicion was aroused almost immediately, and it was not long till she became ill, with all the symptoms of aconite [24] poisoning. She felt her strength going; her heart slowing. And then, through the window, she saw that a crowd was silently gathering. She realised that they had come in curiosity to watch her die.
         There she was, alone in a strange and hostile land. But her Lord was with her, and she remembered and claimed His promise--for the sake of Tibet (Mat.28:20). Immediately she felt the blood tingling again in her veins. Her heart became normal, and her strength returned. She took her Tibetan Scripture Bible and went outside to preach Jesus and His power to save those who had come to see her die!
* * *
The Deep, Dark Well
By Tony Massey
         I wasn't paying much attention to the kids playing in the yard of the little rural house where I was working. The children's mothers, Peggy and her sister-in-law Darlene, were sprucing the place up for Peggy's father to move in, and I was helping out on this muggy April day. I was dragging some junk from the rear of the house when I heard one of the kids hollering.
         "Help! Cissie's in the water!"
         Water? I wondered. There was no water on this property. But the little boy went on yelling and pointing to a squatty grey shed. "In there! Hurry!"
         I started running and nearly collided with Peggy, who was also scrambling toward the shed. She went in first and I crowded behind her. Cracks between the tired old boards let in a few shafts of dusty sunlight. I could make out a couple of barrels and some rickety shelves with rusted tools. No sign of Darlene's daughter, four-year-old Cissie. Then came her echoing screams.
         One glance at the packed clay floor froze me. In the middle was a hole, a low concrete ring about four feet in diametre. This wasn't a shed, but an old well house!
         We fell to our knees and peered down into the murky depths. There was nothing but a faint liquid glimmer in the blackness. No telling how far Cissie had plunged.
         "Cissie!" shouted Peggy. "Are you standing on the bottom?"
         "No, I'm hanging on to the side," Cissie whimpered, sounding miles away. "It's hurting my fingers." She must have dug her fingers into the cracks between the concrete. I wondered how long her little hands would hold out.
         Just then Darlene ran in. "Tony, do something!" she gasped, her voice verging on hysteria. "Go down after her!" But there was no ladder, no rope, only a dirty blue pump on the far side of the well, with two plastic pipes fastened by clamps. I stared apprehensively at the pipes, watching them drop into the darkness.
         "No," I said, "I'm going to the fire station." We couldn't call. There was no phone at the house yet.
         "Some firemen are coming," Darlene called down the hole as I dashed to my old Buick. "Just hang tight, honey."
         I could barely see the dusty old road as my car lurched around the hairpin turn. Had I made the right decision? Should I have tried to save Cissie myself? Had I chickened out? But what did they expect of me, anyway? I was just an average 18-year-old guy--and scared. But a little girl was scared too. "God," I whispered, "please help save Cissie."
         I stomped on the accelerator as the firehouse came into view. Seconds later I screeched to a halt in front, where a woman dispatcher was unfolding a flag.
         "Get the rescue crew," I blurted out. "A little girl's trapped in a well."
         "Crew's out checking fire hydrants," she drawled. "I'm the only one here. What's the address?"
         "Address?" I repeated. "I--I don't know. Just follow me."
         She hesitated, looking as if she was trying to decide whether to follow a scraggly-looking teen who couldn't even give an address.
         "Come on!" I barked. The commanding tone of my voice surprised me. "The kid's gonna drown!"
         The dispatcher jumped behind the wheel of the chief's cruiser [25], saying she'd radio our location to the rescue crew once we got there. It would take them at least another 20 minutes to reach Cissie. That might be too late. As we roared along, all I could think was, Someone's got to save Cissie.
         Someone. Was that someone me?
         If you don't save her, no one else will, I suddenly thought. Man, you've got to try.
         We skidded all the way up to the door of the shed. I jumped out of the car. "I'm going in," I shouted.
         "I don't think that's such a good idea, son," said the dispatcher, puffing after me. "Wait for the crew."
         "There's not enough time."
         Inside, Peggy and Darlene were desperate. "She can't hold on much longer, Tony," said Darlene, gulping back a sob. "The water's freezing."
         I sucked in my breath and slipped through the cobwebs around the hole, grasping the shaky plastic pipe. Would it hold? I wondered. Slowly I lowered myself into the darkness.
         As I inched my way down, the pipe began to give slightly under my weight. I dug my boots into the concrete, knocking some fragments loose. It must have seemed like a cave-in to Cissie. A muffled little voice reached up out of the shadows, "Please don't step on me."
         "You'll be fine," I called back, hoping my echoing voice didn't betray the fear that grew with every foot deeper I descended--10 feet, 15. My heart pounded. How much farther? The filtered light from above was swallowed up by the chilled depths. Sounds turned stifled and flat. I groped my way along--20 feet, 25. I heard Cissie's shallow breathing and chattering teeth directly below me. I made a grab for her and lost my grip on the pipe, plunging us both into the shockingly cold water. Suddenly I was up to my neck, unable to touch bottom, and with scarcely enough room to tread water.
         I gasped at the prospect of being sucked beneath the water. I shuddered thinking about the snakes and leeches [26] that might be lurking in the well.    But I had to keep a clear head. Quickly I clamped a sputtering, struggling Cissie to my chest and grasped the pipe. "We're going to climb out of here now, Cissie," I said, as calmly as I could.
         "Good," she sniffled, clinging tightly to me and shivering violently.
         But as I fought to pull us up to the pipe, the buoyancy [27] of the water was replaced by the dead weight of Cissie's limp body. My jeans felt as if they were made of mud.
         We'd climbed only a few feet above the water when I had to stop. My chest felt like it was going to explode. My hands were turning numb from the cold. I could barely make out the moon of light at the top of the well. The terrible truth dawned: We're not going to make it.
         "Cissie, I can't climb anymore. We'll just have to wait here."
         "Oh," she replied softly, her body sagging slightly in disappointment. My hands slipped a little on the slick pipe. I pressed my shoulders to one side, wedged my foot against the far wall and tightened my grip on the pipe. A damp, throbbing ache seeped into my bones. There was the sound of my boots scraping as we suddenly skidded down a few inches. Cissie let out a little scream and slid down my chest.
         "Hang tight!" I commanded. I peered above me, looking for signs of activity. "Hurry up those firemen!" I hollered.
         "They're coming!" Peggy shouted back. "I think I hear them now!"
         I cocked my ear and waited. Nothing happened. Then I understood. They really aren't here. She's only trying to boost our spirits. I felt myself slip again. Cissie's nails dug into my flesh. "Tony..." she whimpered.
         I looked down at Cissie and in the dimness her pleading blue eyes met mine. She was trusting me.
         Then came another thought: There's no one else. I had to do it. But now I needed help. God, this little girl is counting on me and I'm counting on You. Please don't let us die down here.
         Cissie was hanging on to my waist. My left leg had given out and was dangling above the water. Suddenly I remembered how, when I was a boy, my father used to walk around the house effortlessly while I rode his foot like a horse. "Cissie," I gasped, "try sitting on my foot."
         She cautiously climbed down, straddled my foot and hugged my knee. The pressure on my back lessened dramatically. We stopped slipping. "Good girl," I breathed.
         All at once I heard Peggy shouting, "Crew's here!" The firemen--at last. But I knew another kind of help had reached us a few moments earlier.
         Soon a powerful beam of light flashed into the well, followed by a thick rope with a loop at the end. Obeying the rescuer's instructions, Cissie climbed up and wrapped her arms around my neck, and I stepped into the loop and pulled myself upright like a kid standing in a tire swing. My back grated against the wall as they hauled us up, and I knew Cissie's knuckles were being rubbed bloody. Once she whispered, "Ouch!" She was a very brave girl.
         It took less than a minute to get us to the top, where strong hands whisked Cissie up and helped me over the culvert. As I stumbled out into the blinding sunlight I noticed a TV crew and a newspaper reporter. They'd heard about Cissie over the police radio. I stood there, blinking and covered in slime. "How's it feel to be a hero?" someone yelled.
         Me? A hero? No, not to my way of thinking. I hadn't planned to save Cissie. I was just trying to do what was right, and under pressure I was able to do a lot more than I'd ever thought I could. When it felt like I might not make it, like I might not hang on, God was there.
         He can make a hero out of anyone. Even an average guy like me.
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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 you may choose those which apply and are helpful.

1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.--What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness?If so, how?
6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
8. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?
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Definitions:
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story & does not cover every meaning of the word.)

[1] ethereal: delicate, light as air
[2] tornado: violent whirling wind that can cause great damage
[3] turbulence: irregular movement of air currents
[4] tumbleweeds: dry bushy plants rolled about by the wind
[5] altimeter: instrument used for measuring altitude or height above sea level
[6] police dispatcher: one who sends out police cars according to the need
[7] incredulous: not believing
[8]arsenic: an element that, combined with oxygen, makes a strong poison
[9] canopy: covering
[10] labyrinth: winding paths like a maze
[11] foliage: leaves
[12] convulsive: violent
[13] fortune cookie: a Chinese cookie which is folded upward & has a secret message" inside on a little piece of paper
[14] carburetor: the part of an engine which changes petrol into vapour
[15] tributary: a stream that flows into a river or other stream
[16] coolies: poor labourers often hired for carrying personal belongings of travellers
[17] chasm: a deep crack in the Earth's surface
[18] reaping hook: a one-handed large curved blade used in farming for reaping crops, similar to a sickle or scythe
[19] accost: approach & stop with evil intent
[20] concealment: a hiding place
[21] settee: a kind of sofa
[22] heresy: an opinion which goes against the official (especially religious) view
[23] layman: a church member or worker without official religious training
[24] aconite: a type of deadly poison
[25] cruiser: a police car
[26] leech: a kind of blood-sucking worm
[27] buoyancy: ability to float
         (Definitions condensed from the World Book, Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary & Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary.)