Power and Protection!--Part 15 CLTP 22 DFO
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!
(Recommended reading for 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at adults' discretion.)

Stories courtesy of Guideposts: The Unlimited Power of Prayer and It Must Have Been An Angel by Marjorie Lewis Lloyd. (Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)

Pinned to a Canyon Wall
By Gertrude Ida Long
         Hard to tell what all was going through my mind that afternoon in September, 1962, as I drove down that narrow mountain road in Southern California, taking an occasional glance down into the shimmering hot canyon which lay 350 feet below.
         There was a chain-link fence along the edge of the roadrather puny, I remember thinking. But really, I imagine my mind was mostly on other things. Widowed a year before, I had begun doing ironing and house cleaning to supplement my income, and it was such a job that had taken me up the canyon this day.
How I miss Ralph! I thought to myself. I was nearly 60 and with Ralph gone my life didnt seem very important.
         I was suddenly brought up straight in my seat when I realized the brake pedal was going way down to the floor. I pushed harder, but instead of slowing down, the car seemed to lurch ahead faster. I pulled on the emergency brake but nothing happened.
         A sharp curve was coming. I knew I would never get around it. The car careened into the fence; the iron links snapped like a paper chain, and in that incredible instant I knew that the car was going over the edge of the cliff.
         The car turned over. My head hit the windshield. And then suddenly I was falling through the air, outside the car, tumbling down the almost vertical wall of the canyon. I clawed and grappled but the sand and rock slid with me. And then the world went as dark as night.
         How long it was before I became conscious I dont know. I realized I was leaning on my back against the canyon wall almost in a standing position because the slope was so steep. My feet braced against something. Blood was trickling into my eyes from a cut on my forehead. My right side ached terribly.
         I called out "Help!" but that made the blood come faster. Painfully I moved my head, trying to see where I was. My feet, I discovered, were wedged against a mesquite bush, one of those tough little desert trees that had somehow got a grip on this rock face.        One hundred and fifty feet below me was the jagged floor of the canyon. Except for that mesquite bush, I would have plunged the rest of the way to certain deathand still would if it pulled loose.
         I twisted my head and looked up. Two hundred feet above me I could see the line where the road cut into the cliff. And below that, directly over my head, a sight that made me catch my breath. Up there, somehow suspended on the sheer canyon wall, was my car. I stared in astonishment, wondering why it did not come rolling down on top of me.
         Surely it could not balance there much longer. And then as I looked farther up and down the canyon an eerie feeling crept over me. This mesquite bush which had stopped my fall was the only growing thing on the entire cliff. Everywhere else only the bare rock shimmered in the heat. A few inches to either side and I would have been killed instantly.
         If God had spoken aloud I could not have known more surely that this was His bush, that it was He who held the car above me, as He held my life itself and all it contained. This thought kept me sane as the growing horror of that day began to unfold.
         The worst of it was the sun. It beat down blinding and burning and there was no hiding from it. Once in desperation I tried to escape the sun by climbing the cliff, leaving my foothold on the mesquite bush and inching backward up the almost perpendicular wall. At once a landslide of sand and dirt ran away from beneath me and I started sliding, staring in terror at the rocks far below. The bush, when my feet touched it again, was like a haven in a strange land.
         When the bleeding on my head stopped, I screamed again for help. The sun was directly overhead now, pressing down on me like an iron hand. I screamed until my tongue swelled from dryness and my lips cracked.
         The uncanny thing was the sounds: music, laughter, voices. I heard radios playing, cars starting up, children shouting. For all along the canyon rim, above the road, were homes, out of sight but not hearing. Some strange trick of the wind or the slant of the rocks sometimes brought the sounds so close they startled me. And yet shout and shriek as I would, I could not make them hear me. My voice, too, followed the air current down into the canyon.
         And so the long, incredible day dragged on. My skin blistered from the heat. Sometimes I think I fainted. And yet, conscious or unconscious, I was aware that God was holding me, talking to me, telling me something if only I could hear.
         Hours later, the first shadows began to move up the canyon walls. In an instant the shimmering oven had become a dim, chill cavern. And it was more than the cold which set me shivering. Suddenly I knew how dark and lonely and fearful this deep canyon would be at night. It was hard to force my dry lips open, but once more I cried out, "Help!"
         Far away, somewhere above, a mans voice answered.
         "Where are you?"
         "Im here!" I yelled. "Down here!"
         "Where are you?" he called again.
         It was a long time before the crazy air currents let him hear me again; after that it was another hour before the fire truck arrived. And while I waited I heard at last what God was saying to me.
         Life was precious. Even to me, who that very morning had valued it so little, who had been tired of living as I rode along strong and healthy. Look at you now, He seemed to say, broken and battered and burned, but clinging desperately to life. Life is precious because it is filled with His work for us.
         The firemen who lowered themselves on ropes past my incredibly balanced car couldnt believe I was alive. The man who had heard me shout couldnt believe it. "I was cleaning out my storm drains," he kept saying when they had hauled me in a basket-stretcher up to the road. "I dont know why, because I never go down there to the edge of the yard."
         The doctors who put 17 stitches in my scalp and set my broken ribs couldnt believe it. "Nobody could survive that fall," they said. "Nobody could hang onto a cliff that long."
         "No," I agreed with them all. "Nobody could." And then I told them Who held me above the abyss and Who brought me out, and Who will do the same for all those who call upon Him.
* * *

Angels Watching over Us...

         When my husband, Johnny, entered a hospital in Houston, Texas, two large aneurysms1 pressed on his heart and spinal cord. Johnny was scared and uncertain. The surgery might leave him paralyzed and he didnt want to live as an invalid. We prayed for Gods guidance in this decision. Finally Johnny asked me to leave for awhile so he could think.
         I went to get a cup of coffee with my brother, Jack, who had come with us. "Without that operation," I told Jack, "Johnny probably wont live out the year."
         When Jack and I returned an hour later Johnny was alone in his room, smiling. "You have to meet my nurse, Shu-Lin," he said. "She has convinced me to have the operation."
         Shu-Lin had assured Johnny he was in good hands, and promised to pray for him. "Not to worry," she had said. How had she given Johnny confidence when the doctors and I couldnt? "Youll understand when you see her smile," Johnny said.
         Jack and I met Shu-Lin later that afternoon. She was everything Johnny had describedAsian in appearance, warm, caring and cheerful, with a radiant smile.
         Johnnys sister Jane arrived to be with us for the surgery, and we went to the waiting room. Shu-Lin accompanied Johnny into surgery. It was her day off, but she said she wanted to be there. During the operation, she returned periodically to let us know how Johnny was doing. Each time she appeared, we felt relief and optimism.
         Finally the surgery was over, and Shu-Lin came to give us the good news even before the doctor reported to us.
         Johnny spent the next five days in intensive care. Often he woke up to find Shu-Lin wiping his forehead or holding his hand. When he was out of danger, Shu-Lin came to say good-bye. "I must go now," she said. "Others need me."
         The following week, Johnny was well enough to go home. We decided we should find Shu-Lin to thank her for being so kind. But when I inquired about her, the nurses on duty just looked at me: They had never heard of her. Johnny and Jack and Jane and I knew she had been with us. I went to the administration office, determined to locate Shu-Lin. But I was told there was no such employee.
         At that moment I realized: Hospitals dont keep records of guardian angels.Sue Bryson

*

         Dustin, my California-bred guide dog, was having trouble outside our Long Island apartment. This was his first snowstorm and he was confused. Im blind, and I wasnt doing so well either. No one was out, so there were no sounds to steer me. Contrary to what people think, guide dogs do not find the way for a blind person. The blind person directs the dog.
         After a harrowing 45 minutes, Dustin and I finally made it back. But guide dogs must be walked regularly. "Next time why dont you ask God to go with you?" a friend suggested. And so I did. "Lord, go with Dustin and me. The wind is so fierce its hard to concentrate on our direction. Lead us."
         Snow stung our faces and it was difficult to make a path. Dustin whined a little. "Okay, boy," I said to him, "the Lord is with us." And then I gave him a command that a blind person gives only when another person is leading the way. "Dustin, follow!"
         Dustin perked up and to my astonishment took off as though he knew exactly where to go. We made it to the street, then headed back to our buildingno problem.
         A young woman trudged up and offered to walk us to our door. "Well just follow your footprints back," she said. "Yours and the dogs, and that other persons."
         "What other person?" I asked.
         "Theres a dogs prints. And your prints. And a larger persons prints. Wasnt someone with you?"
         I paused for a moment and then I answered, "Oh yes, there was Someone with us." There always is.Sandy Seltzer

* * *
         In 1992 my sister Joy was fighting her final battle against cancer. I wanted Joy to go into a hospice2, but she didnt want to leave her home. I couldnt be with her constantly. Lord, who will watch over her?
         Joy and I had come from a medical family. Mom was a nurse. Dad was a small-town doctor in Glenview, Illinois, 20 miles north of Chicago. His concern for his patients was legendary; he often made house calls without being summoned. Sometimes Joy and I had felt overlooked, longing for the attention he seemed to reserve for his patients. But no matter how busy hed been all week, Dad stood on the basement stairs every Sunday morning, polishing his shoes for church.
         I called Dr. Marilyn Croghan, Joys radiologist, hoping she could convince Joy to move into a hospice. "Your father called also," she said. "He wants Joy to come live with him when weve done all we can medically ... " Her beeper went off, and the doctor was abruptly called away before I could correct her.
         Three days later Joy died at home. I called Dr. Croghan to thank her for all shed done. Then I mentioned the phone call. "It had to be someone else," I said.
         "He distinctly said he was Joys father," Dr. Croghan insisted. "He talked about her case and understood all the medical detailsas if he were a doctor too."
         And then I knew God had provided the reassurance I needed. Dad died in 1967, but he still watched over his children.Stephen G. Gladish

* * *
The Yellow Kite
By Beverly Newman
         I stood at the window and watched the neighborhood children flying their kites on the hill behind our house. My four-year-old son Michael stood next to me with his face eagerly pressed against the glass. Then, looking up at me with pleading eyes, he again asked if he could have a kite.
         For days now, ever since he had first seen the children congregate on the hill, Michael had been asking the same question, and had been given the same answer: "Wait until you are a little older."
         It was easier not to go into a long explanation, but actually Michael was too young to fly a kite all by himself, and that meant that one of his parents would always have to go with him to help. Because of my poor health I simply didnt have the strength or energy, and my husband was usually at work. Once again, Michael hid his face in my skirt, something he always did when he was going to cry and didnt want me to see.
         As I turned from the window, I felt like crying myself. I looked around the room; the furniture was shabby and worn, and the walls were badly in need of repair. Even though we had lived here for several months, I had not done very much to fix the place up.
         My husband Bill worked long irregular hours at his job and earned a good salary. However, there was never enough money, and we kept going deeper into debt. My health deteriorated to the point of needing to be constantly under a doctors care. As a result of the lack of money for all this, a tension had grown between my husband and I and we found we could no longer get along with one another.
         It all looked so hopeless; even God seemed to have forgotten us. I prayed so often about our problems, asking God for help, but things only seemed to get worse. I found myself thinking, God doesnt care, and I guess I dont either.
         I walked over to the mirror and studied my reflection. It was almost like looking at a stranger. I looked pale and worn, much older than my years. I no longer took the time to fix my hair. I stepped back and studied my whole imagethe old dress I had worn all week was wrinkled and torn at the pocket. As I stood there and stared at myself, a feeling of dread, almost panic, came over me, and it filled my whole body with fear. It was the realization that I was giving up on life. I had stopped caring about anything; I felt defeated. I could no longer rise above the depression that had taken hold of me.
         Michael was the one spark of life left for me. He could make me smile, and when he hugged me, I would feel love. I clung to him much in the way one would cling to a life preserver. He needed me and I knew itthat kept me going.
         As I tucked him into bed that evening, Michael said, "Mommy, may I pray to God to send me a yellow kite?" Then, fearing that I might again repeat what I had said so many times before, he added, "Maybe He doesnt think Im too young?"
         "Yes," I said. "We will leave it up to Him to decide about it once and for all." I was tired of the whole thing and hoped that maybe this would make Michael stop talking about it.
         Michael prayed his prayer and fell asleep with a smile on his face. As I stood there looking down at that beautiful child with the blond curls, so trusting in his faith that God would answer his little prayer, I found myself questioning God. Would He really answer such a small prayer when He had chosen not to hear any of my frantic pleas or send me any help to relieve my situation? "Oh, God," I prayed, "please help me! Show me the way out of this dark place!"
         The next morning as I raised the shade in the kitchen, I stared at the sight that met my eyesa string hanging down in front of the window. Not quite able to believe the thoughts that were being put together in my mind, I found myself running out the back door and into the yard. There it was, a yellow kite, caught on the roof with its string hanging down.
         "Oh, thank You, God, thank You!" I repeated over and over again. I was thanking Him for the yellow kite, and I was thanking Him for the joy that was flooding into my soul. He had answered the prayer of a little boy, just a little prayer, but by answering that prayer, He had also answered my prayer for help.
         Suddenly I remembered Michael. I ran to his room, scooped him up in my arms and carried him into the backyard. He was still half-asleep and didnt quite know what to make of his mother who was babbling about something on the roof and saying, "Wait until you see!"
         He clapped his hands and bounced up and down in my arms when he saw the kite. "Mommy, Mommy, and its even yellow!" he exclaimed. I smiled at him and added, "Its a miracle!" He hugged me and said, "I knew God would answer my prayer. I just knew He would."
         I thought to myself. This is why I had been so depressed. I had lost my faith. I had turned my back on God, and then insisted that He had stopped caring. The yellow kite was not the only miracle that God had sent to us that morning. There was also a miracle happening in my heart.
         When Bill came home we took the kite to the beach and flew it. It went so high that it was almost out of sight for a while. Bill said he had never seen a kite fly so high. We asked all over the neighborhood, but we never found a trace of the kites former owner.
         We moved several times in the years that followed, and the yellow kite always went with us. My depression left me, and as my health improved, so did my relationship with my husband.
         At each new place I would hang the kite in some corner where I could see it as I went about my duties. It served as a reminder that no matter how bad things may seem, we must never lose sight of the fact that God cares, that He hears our prayers. No request is too big or too small to bring before Him.

* * *
"Daddy, a Tornado!"
By Rena Millbooker
         I was folding the clean laundry after lunch that breezy Sunday two years ago. Ashley, our three-year-old son, and our daughter Brittany, six, were sprawled on the living room floor of our trailer home, eyes glued to the television. Tiny two-month-old Kristen dangled sleepily in her baby swing. Wyatt, my husband, was outside working on the car window. It had gotten stuck open that morning on the way home from church. Now a darkening sky threatened rain and he was anxious to get the window closed.
         I glanced at our new baby. Times were hard and she was certainly a challenge for us. But we didnt mind; little Kristen had drawn us all closer as a family. We tried to maintain a steady faith in God, trusting that He would see us over the rough spots.
         Balancing a stack of clean laundry, I dropped off Ashley and Brittanys clothes in their room and carried the babys things back to an old chest of drawers in our bedroom. The trailer wasnt big enough for a nursery, and we didnt have the money in our budget for a new closet. For now, the bottom drawer of our clunky old dresser would have to do.
         I struggled with the drawer until it squeaked openit was always a battlethen placed Kristens blankets and T-shirts in neat rows. As I tried to push the drawer closed with my foot, I heard Wyatt come in from the yard.
         "You get it fixed?" I called, walking to the kitchen.
         "Yep," he answered, standing at the sink washing grease smudges off the thick lenses of his glasses. "Just in time too." He told me he had heard a tornado warning on the radio for some surrounding counties. Brittany turned from the TV and gave me a searching, fretful look.
"I dont believe we have anything to worry ... " Wyatt started to reassure us, but just then thunder vibrated the trailers floor and Brittany rushed over and clutched him around the waist. "Is that a tornado?" she cried.
         "No, honey," Wyatt said. There was another rumble of thunder, like a muffled drumroll. Lightning slashed the sky.
         "But you know, if a tornado ever does come," Wyatt said, "you should get out of the trailer, run as fast as you can for the gully3 out back and lie down there."
         Brittany nodded solemnly as I glanced out the window and saw something startling. I tried to keep my voice steady so I wouldnt alarm the children. "Wyatt, come here and take a look at this." A low, eerie-looking fog was creeping toward the trailer, like something out of a horror movie.
         "Maybe its smoke. Id better go check if theres a fire."
         The kids and I watched from the window as Wyatt went outside to investigate. In a few minutes he was back inside, satisfied that there was no fire. The strange mist moved over the gully and drifted toward the road as a lingering hush fell over everything.
         A sudden blast of wind rocked the trailer. Trees began to bend. In an adrenaline-filled instant I snatched Kristen from her swing. Wyatt grabbed a heavy infant car seat and helped me strap her in. The wind sounded like a locomotive roaring down on us. "Get the kids into the bathroom!" Wyatt yelled.
         I grabbed Ashley by the arm and followed Wyatt, who was carrying the car seat, down the hallway. But I couldnt find Brittany. Suddenly I saw her racing toward the back door. "No," I cried. "Brittany, its too late to go outside!" She didnt hear me. She threw open the door, took one step and froze, gaping at the chaos. Debris swirled in the air, as if caught in a whirlpool. "Daddy, a tornado!" Brittany screamed.
         Trancelike, she swayed in the doorway. A few seconds more and she would be sucked into the wind. Wyatt was struggling with the car seat and trying to get to Brittany at the same time, but hed lost his glasses. Without them he was virtually blind.
         Squeezing Ashleys arm tight, I lunged toward the door and was able to get a grip on Brittanys jeans. For a second I was in a desperate tug-of-war with the wind, then Brittany came tumbling back into the trailer just as a lawn chair banged into the doorframe, bounced off and shot across the yard like a missile.
         The roar seemed to come from all directions, as if we were inside the sound. The trailer rocked back and forth. Wyatt still had his arms wrapped around the car seat. There was blood streaming down from a cut on his head. "Rena," he cried out to me, "Rena!"
         I couldnt answer. I could barely breathe. It took everything I had just to hold on to Brittany and Ashley. "God, please take care of my children," I sobbed. I felt the edge of the trailer lift off the ground, followed by a splintering crash. One whole side just disappeared. Brush and rubble swept past. There was a thumping boom. I looked up and saw nothing between us and the black swirling sky. Our roof is gone!
         I felt a tremendous jolt and staggered backward. "Brittany! Ashley!" I screamed as they were pulled from my grip. I tried to grab on, but the wind tore them away. They were crying, clutching at my clothesbut it was no use. "Mommy!" they screamed.
         I looked for Wyatt. His face was bloodied and terror-struck. The car seat was wrenched from his arms and went shooting out of the trailer and into the tornado with baby Kristen still in it. No, God, no ... I pleaded silently as blackness closed over me.
         When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the ground, rain gently pelting my face. The wind had died down. All around was the wreckage of our home and belongings. Water gushed from a twisted pipe. The trailer was completely gone. The children!
         I tried to get up, but my legs were trapped. I looked down and realized I was under a crushing pile of tree limbs. "Ashley! Brittany!" I called as I painfully dragged myself from under the sharp branches. Struggling to my feet, I spotted a small figure stumbling toward a neighbors trailer. Ashley! Then I heard Brittanys voice and turned to see her running toward me. "Thank You, God," I whispered.
I quickly instructed Brittany to fetch Ashley and get in the car. Amazingly, it was relatively undamaged.
         "Where are Daddy and Kristen?" Brittany whimpered.
         "I dont know, honey. Im going to ask God to help me to find them. Now go get Ashley. Hurry."
         I stumbled over sticks of furniture and scattered clothing, calling their names and praying. Suddenly I saw Wyatt standing in what had been our front doorway. He was dazed and still bleeding. I ran to him, scooped up a towel and pressed it to his wound.
"The children ... " he mumbled. "Where are the children?"
         After I was sure he would be all right, I pushed him toward the car and continued my search, trepidation4 filling me. I did not want to find my baby dead. Finally I stopped in the middle of the yard, too frightened to go on, and wept. "Dear God," I begged, "please help me."
         Just then I quieted, as if a soothing hand had brushed over me, and I slumped against the back of the old chest of drawers from our bedroom. Something told me to remain silent. I scarcely drew a breath. And then I heard it. Was it my imagination? There it was again. A babys cry.
         I looked around frantically. Then I knew. The cry was coming from where I stood, from the chest. I walked around it and looked down. There in the stubborn bottom drawer, nestled safely on a pallet of her baby blankets, lay Kristen. The car seat was nowhere to be seen.
         I fell to my knees and lifted her. "Oh, Kristen ... " She snuggled into my arms. "How did you get in there?" I asked. But I knew the answer would remain unspoken. I simply felt weak with gratitude, gratitude for life and for a God who can reach into the funnel of a tornado and pull us all into the safety of His arms.

* * *

My Possible Dream
By Fran Roberts
         Years ago my children and I were in a sorry state. My husband was gone and my health was failing. The doctor said my poor health was caused by the emotional stress of my broken marriage and the physical stress of working two jobs, taking care of our little apartment and trying to be both mother and father to a nine-year-old daughter and an eight-year-old son.
         It hadnt always been that way. Only a few years before, we had been a family of four. My husband worked as a milkman and I was a full-time wife and mother, tending not only our two young children and our six-room house, but also the chickens, ducks, sheep and pigs we kept on our place in the countryit wasnt really big enough to be called a farm.
         It was a life we all enjoyed, but despite counseling, my husband and I grew further and further apart. Eventually we separated, then got a divorce.
         The house was sold, and the children and I moved into a three-room apartment. I got a job with a small weekly newspaper for $60 a week.
         After about a year, my ex-husbands child-support payments became more and more infrequent and I had to take a second job. To cut expenses, we moved to a cheaper apartment on the edge of a rough neighborhood in a nearby city. Soon I was struck down by illness.
         The doctor said I would be out of work for some months. With a little money I had set aside from the sale of our house, we were able to get bybarely.
         After a couple of months of city apartment living in a depressing neighborhood, every bone in my body cried out for a home with just a little backyard for the children. And one Sunday afternoon I told my friend Lucy about my desire to have my own house.
         "You have to face facts," she said, shaking her head sadly. "Youre a single woman. You have two small children. Youre not getting child support. Youre unemployed. You dont have any money.
         "I hate to say it, but you dont have a prayer5 of buying a house."
         All that afternoon I thought about her words and I became more and more depressed. Washing dishes after supper, I turned on the radio for some music, but what I got was the enthusiastic voice of a minister.
         "With God, all things are possible," the preacher said, "but you need to know what you want." I took my hands out of the soapsuds. He had my attention now!
         "Theres nothing wrong with having big dreams," he continued. "After all, the Bible says that if you want to move a mountain, you have to believe and say be gone from here, and lo, the mountain will be removed and cast into the sea.
"Start by setting goalsbut not fuzzy goals. You cant just say, I want a nice house or I want a different job. You must be specific. Picture in your mind what you want. And believe every day."
How extraordinary! It was as though God Almighty was telling me that I did have a prayer, after all.
         I turned off the radio and replayed the sermon in my mind. After the children were in bed, I took a notebook and pen and sat down at the kitchen table to begin picturing my house.
         What did I want? Well, I wanted a house with a backyard.
         "Be specific," the radio voice had said.
         "Okay," I said aloud, "I want a two-story house, an older home, with at least three bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen and bathroom. And Id like to have a porch and an attic and a cellar and a big backyard with an apple tree."
         The picture was becoming more clear in my mind.
         "I want a maple tree in the front yard and a walk that goes right to the porch; no steps. Id like a farmhouse-type home with a porch that goes from the front to the side like the letter L. And at the end of the side porch should be a door to the kitchen.
         "The kitchen sink should look out over the backyard, and the yard should have enough room for a garden as well as room for the children to play. And Id like it to be in a quiet neighborhood."
         With that, I turned the whole project over to God. I asked His help in achieving my dream and prayed for His blessing upon it. And when I had finished, I felt peaceful and secure, almost as though I had received assurance that I would see my dream come true.
         A few months later the doctor said I was able to return to work. I got a job as an associate editor with a business publications firm in New York City. Every day on the train going back and forth from my apartment in New Jersey, I pictured the house and the yard. But as month after month went by, the trains wheels seemed to clack out the message: "No money ... no house ... no money ... no house."
         Was my friend right? Was my dream unrealistic?
But then I remembered the radio preacher, and the train wheels clicked another refrain6: "Gotta believe ... gotta believe ... gotta believe."
         After more than a year at the New York job, I heard of an opening on a small newspaper in a little town in northwestern New Jersey. I rushed over, was interviewed by the editor, was offered a job and accepted on the spot!
         The week after I began work there, on my lunch hour, I started calling real estate agents. As soon as they discovered I was divorced, they either found some excuse to get off the telephone or they just told me that there was no point in talking because Id never get a mortgage7.
         I was getting more and more discouraged. Was I crazy to have thought it might all work out?
         But the very next day I talked with a real estate man who had a different attitude. He said he didnt know why I shouldnt get a mortgage if my income was adequate. Then he asked me to describe the kind of house I was looking for.
         When I finished the description, he said, "Im going out this afternoon to look at a house that sounds a bit like that. Would you like to go with me?"
         "I certainly would," I replied.
         Late that afternoon we drove down a street less than a mile from the newspaper office. We stopped in front of a house that had an L-shaped porch, a walk leading directly onto that porch (no steps), and a big maple tree in the corner of the property. The street was quiet, too. To the left of the house and all across the street were older homes that the agent said were inhabited by middle-aged and older people. To the right of the house was the town cemetery!
         I like Your sense of humor, Lord, I thought as I went up the walk.
         The house contained eight rooms: four bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen and study. The kitchen sink looked out over the backyard; the backyard contained two apple trees and plenty of room for play and garden areas. And the price was very reasonable.
         "Draw up the papers," I said. "This is my house."
         As I drove home that night, I thanked God for all His blessings.
         "Wow, Lord," I said, "You took care of the employment situation and You sent me to the exact house I pictured. Now all I need is money for the down payment."
         When I got home I phoned my father and told him about the wonderful house. Then he had some news of his own:
         "Remember how the government was negotiating to buy my cabin on the river so they could build that dam?" he asked. "Well, the check arrived this week and I want to give you $1,000 for a down payment and $1,000 for closing costs."
         I cried for joy; I was on top of the world. It had taken time and persistence and prayer, but my dreams were finally coming true.
         I called the real estate agent a few weeks later and asked him how things were progressing.
         "The mortgage application is being held up by the FHA8," he said. "They havent turned it down, but they havent approved it, either. It doesnt look good."
         I called the president of the mortgage company.
         "I personally checked your application, Mrs. Roberts," he said. "Your credit is good, your character is good. As far as I am concerned, you could have the mortgage tomorrow. But its an FHA loan, and if they dont approve the application, thats the end of it."
         "Whats the trouble?" I asked.
         "Youre a divorced woman with two small children," he said bluntly. "The FHA doesnt like to insure money for divorced women. In fact, the FHA doesnt like to insure money for any women."
         "You want to know whats ironic?" he asked. "If you were a man with a wife and three small children and another on the way, and you were making the same salary you are making now, they would approve a mortgage for you up to almost $20,000. But because youre a divorced woman, they wont even go for $14,000."
         I thanked the man and hung up. I was down, but I wasnt giving up. I took a deep breath and called the regional office of the FHA. The secretary told me the director was out of town; his assistant was in a meeting. I left my name and number.
         Every day for a week I called. Same story. Same message. Same lack of reply.
         "Oh, God, I need more help," I cried out one night as I was driving home.
The preachers voice on the radio came into my mind: "The Bible says that if you want to move a mountain, you have to believe and say be gone from here, and lo, the mountain will be removed and cast into the sea."
         As I drove, I pictured a group of frowning men shaking their heads over my mortgage application. I saw them massed into the shape of a mountain. "Be gone from here," I commanded aloud. And then I pictured a mountain sliding off into the sea.
         You can do it, Lord, I thought. I believe in You.
         The next day my editor sent me to a luncheon honoring a member of a major political party. While there, I met several women from the partys state and national headquarters.
Upon hearing my story of my struggle to get my own home, one of the ladies took out a business card, and on the back wrote the name and telephone number of a U.S. congressman.
         "You tell this man I told you to call," she said. "If anybody can get this thing moving, hes the one. Hes a real mountain mover."
         A real mountain mover. I felt goose bumps rising on my arms.
         When I called the congressman, he promised to look into the matter. "Dont lose hope," he said.
         A day after our conversation, I received a photocopy of a letter from the congressman to the FHA office asking for a report on the status of my application.
         Two long weeks passed without any further word. Then one night I came home exhausted. I leafed through the maila bill ... a pamphlet ... an envelope from the congressmans office! I tore it open and skimmed the words in a copy of the letter he had received from the FHA: "... you will be interested to know that a determination has been made ... and the mortgage application has been approved."
         Now my eyes were so full of tears I couldnt read any further.
Ive been in my house for many years now. The children have grown up and have gone out on their own. Just as I do, they carry the knowledge that with God all things are possible.

* * *
The Safest Place on Earth
By Gregory Vojae
         Four days after the fire in the Winecoff Hotel in Atlanta, I went with the building superintendent back up the ten floors to my old room. The frame of the hotel was concrete and had not burned. Water from the fire hoses still stood in puddles. Sodden ashes, inches deep, lay over everything.
         The room had been totally destroyed.
         One hundred and twenty-one people died in that fire in 1946. I often have wondered why I should have been saved while others perished. I still have no answer to that question. But if I do not understand why I was spared, there is no doubt in my mind as to how I was saved. The principle is one anyone can use in any situation in which he finds himself in danger.
         How vividly I remember the first moment I knew something was wrong. I sat up in bed, instantly awake. The lights were glowing with a strange reflected light coming from the window. "A fire somewhere!" I said to myself as I threw off the covers.
         The minute I leaned out the window I knew where the fire was. From the window directly below me came a cloud of choking smoke and that eerie, pulsing red light. Then wails of a fire truck drew closer. Other sirens joined in. A woman below me began to scream. A man put his head out the window and cried, "Help us! Help us!"
The stairs! Why didnt they run down the stairs! I dashed to the door of my room, yanked it open and staggered back coughing. The air must be better near the floor. I put my face right down on the old red hall carpet and began to crawl for the stairway. A few yards farther on I heard a roaring, crackling sound like a giant chimney on fire. The stairway was a seething inferno of flame. I got up, swaying in the poisoned air, dashed back to my room, and slammed the door.
         A fire escape! Where was a fire escape? Id been at the Winecoff for six weeks now; my mind raced through its halls. There was no fire escape. A sprinkler system? No. Fire doors? Every door I could remember was made of wood.
         A sheet rope! Id make a rope of my bedding and go out the window. And then? All my sheets and blankets and spreads tied together might reach two floors, and I was 10 floors up.So I dismissed that plan as out of the question.
         I was trapped. I could feel panic welling up in me.
         I had to stop that fear. I turned back to my room and my eye caught sight of my Bible on the night table by my bed. There was Psalm 91, which had taught me that dwelling "in the secret place of the most High" is being in communion with God, and this is the safest place on Earth. Could I enter it now, that safe place? Could I be there at the same time I was in this burning building?
         I closed my eyes and started to say the Psalm to myself.
         He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty....
         Even as I said the Words, all sense of unreasoned fear left me. I knew I would not be alone.
         "What is it You want me to do, Lord?"
         And suddenly I knew I had received an answer. I was to put on my clothes. I did not argue with myself about the logic of the command, I simply got dressed.
         A man above me screamed. But as long as I was saying my Psalm, I was surrounded by peace. And while I was there in that center of calm I could hear the soft, quiet words that God whispered in answer to my questions.
         "What shall I do now, Lord?"
         "Make a rope out of your sheets."
         So, even though this idea had at first seemed preposterous, I began to make a rope. I had to work by the window to get any air at all. Id run to my bed and jerk off a piece of sheeting and dash back to the window to knot it. I was a traveling accountant, going from city to city for Columbia Pictures; it had been years since I had worked with knots. I prayed that I could remember how to make a hitch that would not slip.
         When I had finished my rope I tied it around the center post of the double window in my room and prepared to start down.
         "No, not yet."
         The command was crisp, clear. I had to obey. But I couldnt see the reason for it. People all around me were crying and screaming now.
         Once again I made a move to let out the rope.
         "No."
         I pulled it in and waited. The paint on the door to my room began to boil. Great blisters formed. I fled back into my safe place.
Because thou hast made the Lord ... thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee....
         To make God my habitation. That was the trick. But it was hard: the roar was coming closer.
         "Now, Lord?" I asked.
         "Not yet."
         Another minute passed. The door began to smoke. And then, suddenly, came the command:
         "Now. Climb out."
         I eased the rope out the window. Slowly I put my foot over the sill, out into the light. My heart was pounding. I slipped my other leg out and balanced with my waist on the window sill. Then, inch by inch, I edged myself backward into the swirling gases, 10 stories above the ground. Even as I was grabbing my sheet rope I saw the flames break through the door and come reaching, lapping into the room. The heat was so intense the backs of my hands were scorched as they clung to the window sill. I stiffened for a moment, glanced down into the volcano and fled back into my safe place.
         For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands....
         No sooner had I slipped out of that room than it became a blast furnace. Where I was for the moment, hanging below my window, was safe. What I was going to do when I got to the end of my sheet-rope I didnt know. My job was to live in the center of my safe place and to obey, one step at a time. Totally unafraid, fully trusting God, I clung steadfastly to my improvised9 rope.
         And then, slowly coming into view through the smoke, I saw the tip end of a ladder. Two floors below me and off to my right I saw a fireman just coming to the top of the ladder. He was looking around.
         Did he see me? I called out and he turned. But how was I to get to him? There wasnt time for him to go down and move the fire truck. Any minute now the heat in my room would weaken the strands in my sheet and I would fall.
         Then I saw that God had prepared the answer to this problem too. The fireman was holding something in his hand. It was the end of a hemp10 rope. The other end was tied to the window of the room next to mine. The fireman started the rope swinging. I let go of my rope with my left hand and reached out into space ... and missed. How much more time before my own rope burned through? The fireman swung his rope again. And this time my fingertips closed around it so that I had a rope in each hand.
         Carefully I transferred my weight to the new rope, and then let go of my sheet.
         Slowly I swung myself into the arms of the fireman.
         Four days later when I was back in my room with the building superintendent, I went to the window and looked down to the ground, ten dizzy floors below. Sticking to the inside of the window post were a few shreds of charred sheeting: my rope must have burned through only moments after I left it. How perfect Gods timing had been! He kept me waiting in that room until the very moment the fireman would come up his ladder. He gave me just enough time on my own rope to be seen by the fireman, to reach out for the new rope, to miss, to try again, to climb to safety.
         The superintendent came over and looked out of the window too.
         "Youre a brave man," he said.
         But I wasnt brave. I wasnt brave at all. I just knew how to dwell in the secret place of the most High. For as long as I stayed there, I was in the center of the safest place on Earth.

Discussion Questions
         Following are a number of questions which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading every story, but please choose those which apply and are helpful.

         1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
         2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
         3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
         4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
         5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
         6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
         7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
         8. Is there anything in these stories that you dont understand?
         9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
         10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
         11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
         12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone elses? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?

Glossary:

         1aneurysm: a swelling of an artery or vein, caused by pressure of the blood on a weakened part
         2hospice: a home for the sick
         3gully: a channel worn by water
         4trepidation: fear, nervousness
         5dont have a prayer: an expression meaning not a chance
         6refrain: a phrase or verse repeated regularly in a song or poem
         7mortgage: a claim on property, given as security to a person, bank, or firm that has loaned money, in case the money is not repaid when due
         8FHA: Federal Housing Administration: U.S. government agency which provides low-cost housing loans
         9improvise: to put together; produce from available materials on the spur of the moment
         10hemp: type of plant used for making ropes, bags, sails, etc.

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