Power and Protection!
CLTP 27
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 18
(For 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at the adults' discretion.)
DFO. Stories courtesy of Guideposts; The Christian Reader; Where Miracles Happen by Joan Wester Anderson; Angel Letters by Sophy Burnham,
and A Rustle of Angels by Guideposts.
(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)
Table of Contents:
Buried by a Blizzard
1
Angel on the Line
3
The Vanishing Lifeguard
4
Armchair Angel
5
Praise Him for His Mighty Acts
6
Message in the Night
8
One Last Goodbye
9
Runaway Rig!
10
Discussion Questions
11
Glossary for Young Readers
12
Buried by a Blizzard
By Eugene and Sandra Zerba
Eugene (Gene): I had been driving the 20-mile stretch of Highway 501 every workday for 30 years and never thought I'd be in mortal danger on it. Not until that Wednesday afternoon in March.
The weather forecast for southeastern Pennsylvania called for snow, but with what we'd had already, what else was new? I finished my shift at 4:30 P.M. at P.J. Valve in Myerstown, where I worked as a machinist, and walked to the parking lot. Outside, the wind almost knocked me over, and driving sleet stung my face. I scraped the windshield of my blue Chevy. Hands numb, I climbed in, grateful to be out of the cold. I was wearing sneakers, overalls and a light quilted jacket, since I usually hop from the house right into the car.
It was slow going through Myerstown. When I got on the two-lane highway, snow was whipping off the fields and building on the pavement. Wind shook the car. Traffic crawled slower and slower until it finally ground to a halt. I'd only made six miles and had another 14 to go. It was five o'clock. Normally, I would have been home by that time.
I could barely see the car in front of me. As I sat with the engine idling, I knew my wife, Sandra, would be concerned. If I'm not home on time she gets real anxious.
Sandra: I had felt uneasy ever since morning. Something just didn't seem right. I knew Gene would be leaving the plant at 4:30 P.M., and with the snow looking so bad, I prayed. I didn't expect him home at his usual time, of course, but around six o'clock I really got worried. I called our church pastor, James Leitzel, as well as our prayer partners and my sister. I asked them all to pray for Gene.
Gene: The roar of a snowmobile sounded outside and someone rapped on my window. I rolled it down to see a man's ice-rimmed face. "We're evacuating," he shouted above the howling wind. "There's a payloader1 up ahead. It'll get to you soon." I thanked him, rolled up the window, leaned back and prayed that Sandra wouldn't worry too much.
The payloader never made it. Maybe I should get out and find a phone, I thought. I knew there were farmhouses not too far away. I forced open the door and climbed out into a wind that took my breath away. I couldn't see in the blinding whiteness. Then as I started to slog through the knee-deep snow, I was stopped short. What was that? It seemed like an authoritative voice: Get back into the car.
I turned and climbed back in. My clothes and sneakers were soaked. I started the engine and turned on the heat. It was nearly 7:00 P.M. "Oh, Lord," I prayed, "tell me what to do."
Sandra: Later that evening I called the Hamburg State Police, who said they had evacuated all the folks marooned in cars along Highway 501, and had taken them to the Mt. Aetna Fire Department. I called the Mt. Aetna station; the men said Gene never showed up.
Gene: Here I was without even a heavy coat in the car. I had read about people who pack emergency items like candles, water, and blankets. I had nothing but a flashlight.
I turned off the engine, afraid snow might clog the tailpipe. About eight o'clock I wondered: Will I have to stay here all night? I'll freeze to death. With all my strength I forced the door open again and wormed my way out. This time snow was up to my hips. Again I sensed a strong command: Stay in the car.
I crawled back. Cleaning snow from my glasses, I realized there was no way I could survive outside the car. I wouldn't last 20 minutes. I was here for the duration. Oh, Lord, I prayed, You know I'm here. I leave it with You. I took consolation in knowing I was already in Sandra's prayers. She and eight other women called each other daily with people's needs. From those eight women, prayer requests would be relayed to other members of our church.
A serenity filled me and I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start. According to my watch, it was after daybreak, Thursday morning. Yet the car was dark and strangely quiet. For an instant, panic gripped me; no one knew I was buried here. But again I felt that strange peace, an uncanny sense of well-being that told me I wasn't alone.
I stamped my feet on the floorboard to get circulation going. I started the engine, to see if the exhaust would clear a small space at the tailpipe, but I soon smelled fumes and shut off the engine. I rolled down the window and punched my hand through the snow until I felt cold air. Could anyone find me?
Sandra: At 10:30 Thursday morning our sons and daughter headed out vowing to find their "Pap." Our youngest, Eugene, Jr., who serves in the National Guard, got authorization to use a four-wheel-drive Army truck. I begged them not to go, but they were determined. Several hours later they returned downcast. They had followed Gene's route until they were blocked by seven-foot-high snow drifts. My sons Chuck and Jim had started climbing through the snow, but police and emergency workers had stopped them, saying there was no one in the buried cars down the highway. I was heartsick. All we could do was continue praying.
Gene: I jammed my hands in my pockets and rested. I knew how effective prayers are. They had certainly protected our four children. I thought of 34-year-old Sis, who, despite miscarriage and other problems, had blessed us with three grandchildren, and Tim, now a healthy 33-year-old, who had nearly died from severe meningitis2 at age three. I dozed. When I awoke, it was late Thursday afternoon. How long? Oh, Lord, how long?
Sandra: By Thursday afternoon I was desperate. A friend's son on the state rescue team had called asking about Gene. I felt sure something terrible had happened to him. I staggered into the living room. Suddenly I had a vision of Gene's car surrounded by a white mist. Above it, hovering protectively, were six to eight angels. I took a deep breath and sank into the couch. I knew God was telling me: It's okay. Don't worry. I'm taking care of him.
Gene: Strangely, I wasn't famished or thirsty as I stared up into the dark. Again, a warm reassurance comforted me. It had to be those prayers. I remembered how we prayed for our 29-year-old Jim when he was two. He had knocked a whole pot of boiling coffee over, and 80 percent of his body had been severely burned. Doctors hadn't expected him to live. But prayer pulled him through. And prayers also brought Eugene, Jr., safely home after Desert Storm.
I fell asleep. Waking late Thursday night, I again centered my thoughts on loved ones and how prayer had brought them through. Was it only two years ago that Jim had his leg crushed at work? The surgeons said that even if they could save his leg, he'd never walk again. But Sandra started her prayer chain going. Now Jim played baseball and would be getting married in April.
April? Will I be there? Of course, I promised myself. Five years ago it would have been a different story. I had been like a dead man then, an alcoholic and chain-smoker. I did not attend church with my wife, preferring to sit at home and drink. At a loss, Sandra asked her Sunday school class to pray for me. By the end of the second week I was relieved of my compulsion to drink.
Again I settled back, relaxed.
Sandra: Missy, my daughter-in-law, called, "Dad's alive!" she cried. "They found him!" Searchers had come across his buried car, found him unconscious and taken him by helicopter to Hershey Medical Center. We all rushed to the hospital, where they were treating Gene for slight dehydration3 and hypothermia4. Otherwise he was fine. We stood around Gene singing: "God is good ... He's so good to me!"
Gene: People ask how I could have survived 41 hours trapped in my car without heat. All I can tell them is that a blanket of prayers kept me warmthat and, from what Sandra tells me, a host of angels.
* * *
Angel on the Line
By Kirsten M. Walker
We had just purchased our first home. My husband, Alan, and I had been working feverishly on our "handyman special," just to make it liveable. In the middle of July, I still felt like I was living in a salvage yard. But, since it was a beautiful summer day, I concentrated on yard work.
Our son, Tyler, was 21 months old and loved playing in his wading pool. I set up the pool in the front yard close to the porch in a shaded area so I could keep an eye on him. Meanwhile, nearby, I tried to coax some grass to life.
Tyler was splashing happily, but, within an hour, the bright sun was becoming so unbearable for me that I moved to the shade of the porch. Alan left for work, teasing Tyler and me for "taking a day off." Before long, I was playing with my toddler in the water.
Since we had been working on our house, our family had gotten to know two carpenters building a home down the street. As they drove past in their truck that day, waving, Tyler's timing was perfect. He picked up a large pail of water and dumped it over Mommy's head. At about the same moment, the phone rang.
It always seems the telephone rings at the most inconvenient times, I thought, as the water dripped from my hair and sopping-wet clothes. But I decided to make a run for it. Then I remembered Tyler.
For a split second, the thought flashed through my mind: I'll put Tyler on the porch since he's wet, too. If I leave the front door open, I can still see him while I grab the phone. He'll be safe.
As he continued to splash, I decided against it. Twenty-one-month-old toddlers can't be trusted to stay put.
With my son on my hip, I slid into the kitchen, and grabbed the receiver to hear, "Hello! This is Auntie Anna. So what are you doing today?"
No sooner had she asked her cheery question than the whole house shook under my feet. A sound, like a bomb exploding, made me tremble.
Auntie Anna was still on the phone, so I asked her to hold so I could run outside and see what had happened. Our house was one lot away from a busy street. Maybe there's been another accident, I said to myself.
As I walked to the front door, I heard wood splintering. That's odd, I thought, opening the door to dash out. I pulled up shortface-to-face with the steaming front end of a large, four-door sedan. Climbing out of the driver's window was a young man.
"Sorry I hit your house, Ma'am." I almost laughed from the shock.
Did I believe in guardian angels? Mine had a nameAuntie Anna. I ran back to the phone and, with voice trembling, told her what happened.
"Tyler and I are all right," I assured her. "I'll call you back later when things settle down." As I hung up, a verse came to mind: "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them" (Psalm 34:7). God had done just that for Tyler and me.
Almost immediately, the carpenters who had just passed by arrived. One of them had heard the boom and now stood where our front porch used to be.
When the police, fire and emergency crews arrived at the scene, they were astounded at what they found. I think we all were, including the car's driver, who was also uninjured.
Looking at where the car's tire tracks cut across the yard, I gasped. Deep ruts ran along both sides of Tyler's wading pool. If I hadn't answered the phone, Tyler and I would have been run over.
And if I had left Tyler sitting on the porch, I said to myself, he might have been seriously injured or even killed. It certainly wasn't just "luck" that only a porch and a car were demolished and we were unharmed.
Everything had happened so fast, Alan hadn't even gotten to work when I called. Hearing my story, his boss promised to send him home immediately.
I was so glad to be in Alan's arms. As the shock wore off, my emotions kicked in. I started to shake and cry. Tyler kept telling Daddy how the "big car, go bang! My porch." We all had to laugh.
With the police reports completed, the area roped off, and the insurance company notified, I called Auntie Anna. A strong prayer warrior, Auntie Anna often calls me during the week.
"What made you call me at that exact moment today?" I asked her.
"I was sitting in my chair and you came to mind," she explained. "I thought you needed a call." We both knew, without a doubt, the Lord directed that call.
* * *
The Vanishing Lifeguard
By Joan Wester Anderson
Like many parents, Carla Rizzuto often asks that her children's guardian angels protect them in a general way. But twice, she has received very specific answers.
When Paul was about four, a pediatric cardiologist5 discovered a hole in his heart. "On rare occasions a hole closes by itself," the doctor told Carla. "But such a thing would take years, and Paul will need surgery soon." His two partners looked at the tests and concurred6. Carla went home to pray. She asked God to put Paul's angel in charge of the situation and to keep her little boy healthy.
Five months later, as Paul's tests were repeated in preparation for surgery, the doctor was startled to see a perfect heart. "We just don't have an answer," he told Carla.
Carla smiled at him. "I do," she said.
Three years later, the Rizzutos visited Disney World's water park in Florida. They were having a wonderful time. All afternoon they had climbed to the top of the water chute and plummeted down into the lake in their rafts. Carla and her husband, Andy, always went before Paul, "The lake was deep at the end of the slide, and since Paul couldn't swim, we wanted to be ahead of him in case he fell out of the inner tube," Carla explains.
At one point, Carla pushed off with Paul behind. But as they sped into a wider lane, she was astonished to see him tear by, revolving wildly. His raft had caught in a groove and was out of control.
Paul looked tinyand terrified. "Paul, hang on to the handles!" Carla called as she tried to reach him. But her tube was spinning too, and she lost sight of him for a few seconds. As she shot toward the lake, her heart almost stopped.
Paul's empty raft was bobbing nearby. But there was no sign of her son.
"Paul!" Carla cried. Quickly she dove into the water, which was just a bit over her head, not terribly deep, but murky. She couldn't see Paul. She surfaced for a moment, frantically searching the area around her. Where was he? Just then she felt something hit her leg.
Again she went under. Paul! She gripped him tightly, but as she tried to pull him up to the surface, he started to struggle. "He was panicking and dragging me down," Carla says. "I didn't know if anyone had seen us, and I was as scared as he was."
She wouldn't let go of Paul. But Carla's lungs were ready to burst. She couldn't stay under and hold him much longer. Suddenly she felt a pair of strong hands grip her waist from under the water and push her up. Still clinging to Paul, she broke through the surface, safe! Who had grabbed her? She looked into the calm, serene face of a man treading water. He was young, with curly brown hair. Probably the lifeguard.
"Oh, thank you!" she gasped. But as Carla turned to Paul, she saw that the lifeguard was on the pier and had just thrown a life preserver to her son. Confused, she looked back.
Their rescuer wasn't there.
"Where did he go?" Confused, Carla scanned the shore, but no one was swimming back. There was no man near the pier where the lifeguard stood watching. No one at all who looked anything like their rescuer.
"Who, Mommy?" Paul was quickly reviving. By now Andy had come down the chute and was bobbing toward them on his raft.
"The man, honey. The one who pushed us out of the water just now."
Paul frowned. "I didn't see any man," he said.
Paul and Andy went over to the pier. Carla slowly made her way to shore, then sat for a while. Her emotions were in turmoil. The more she thought about the near miss, the more frightened she was. Yet, underlying her anxiety was a sense of tranquillity, almost giddiness7, a feeling she wanted to savor and enjoy. She stared at the water. Who had the man been? Why hadn't he stayed nearby so she could thank him properly? And there was something else odd about the incident, something Carla couldn't quite identify.
Of course! She sat bolt upright. The man had been submerged, for Carla had felt his hands pushing her from underneath. But when she had looked into his face, his curly brown hair had been completely dry!
"God is always taking care of us," Carla says, "and the best gift He's given me is my faith in Him, the faith to keep asking, and keep looking each day for the blessings He sends."
* * *
Armchair Angel
By Joan Wester Anderson
Jackie Commins, of Newberg, Oregon, is a firm believer in Heavenly help. Since she doesn't own a car, she walks nearly two miles to work at the commercial laundry she manages. "Summers are fine, but our winters are tough, especially when you're traveling through ice and snow before dawn," she says. "But since I learned to ask God and His angels to be with me, I can actually feel unseen hands holding me up, especially on slippery spots."
One evening shortly after the New Year, however, Jackie learned even more dramatically how well God takes care of her. Because no heat gets to the bedroom, she sleeps on a couch in the living room during the winter. The couch is opposite her front door, and there is one window in the roomboth open onto a small porch. Anyone on the porch can see directly into the room because curtains cover only the sides of the window and don't close.
Jackie was nearly asleep that evening when she was jolted by loud knocking at the door. Since she lives alone and all her lights were out, she decided not to answer. Whoever it was would surely go away.
However, the knocking continued, and now Jackie could hear the low voices of two men. They were talking on the other side of the door, just a few feet from her. Suddenly one shone a flashlight through the window of the door, its ray narrowly missing her as she lay on the couch. Jackie's heart began to pound. These men were obviously up to no good.
Again, they murmured to each other, although she couldn't make out the words. Then she heard footsteps moving stealthily toward the window, and again the light went on. Its beam traveled slowly across the floor as far as it could go, then outlined Jackie's armchair, which directly faced the window. Just a thin pane of glass separated her from the intruders. "My God, my God...." Frozen with fear, Jackie could find no other words for her prayer.
The light beam, which had been moving slowly across the armchair, suddenly stopped. Abruptly it clicked off, and Jackie heard one of the men talking excitedly to the other. The light went back on again, as the second man was now holding the flashlight. Once again the beam was focused on the chair, then quickly extinguished.
"Let's get out of here!" Jackie heard one of them exclaim, no longer attempting to be quiet. Two pairs of feet clattered across the porch and off into the night. In just a few seconds, there was silence. But it took Jackie several hours to fall asleep.
Days later, when Jackie read her weekly newspaper she learned what had happened on that terrifying night. Two men were in police custody, charged with burglarizing several houses in an area all around Jackie. The thugs had posed as travelers in distress, needing to use a phone. When kindly people opened the door, the men had overpowered them and robbed them of valuables and holiday gifts still under the tree. Obviously they had similar plans at Jackie's house. Except for one thing, the question that has intrigued her ever since.
What (or whom) did the men see sitting in the armchair?
* * *
Praise Him for His Mighty Acts
By Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.
Would you believe four flat tires on one car in one day? Well, listen to this.
Back in 1953 I was planning an easy little trip from my home in Connecticut to Pennsylvania. I had four brand new tires for my car. And that was no ordinary car. It's a 1934 Packard, a tan and chocolate brown beauty, with long sleek lines and highly finished grillwork up front. The top lets down, and there's a sturdy running board on either side of the chassis8, which rests on gleaming wire wheels. More about those wheels later.
Life was unsettled for me back at that particular time. Emily McNair, my first wife, had died of cancer. Emily and I had bought that Packard together. It had been an old wreck of a car sold to us by a New Englander with a thick Maine accent.
We had hired a mechanic to restore it, but Emily died before the car was finished. So there I was with our two small children, Nancy, 7, and Efrem III, 4. And the Packard.
I withdrew from acting for a while, to give myself time to heal, and in the interim I began composing music. I come from a musical family. Mother was a beautiful soprano known on the opera stage as Alma Gluck; and my father, a celebrated violinist and composer, was then director of the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia.
Now my first work was going to be performed! It was definitely a thrill, the prospect of going down to Merion, on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia, to hear it presented. I'd written a motet, a choral work sung without instrumental accompaniment. It was based on a sacred text, Psalm 150, an unusual sort of composition for me since I wasn't all that religious. At the time, that is. But I'd put my all into that piece, and it was one of the numbers to be performed on a Sunday afternoon program of religious music by a very distinguished group. My father would be in attendance, too.
The plan that Sunday was for me to drive down to New York City, park the Packard, then continue by train to Philadelphia, where I would meet my father. Together we would make the short commute by train to Merion. But if I had known then what awaited me, I might never have ventured out that Sunday.
I drove a short distance down Route 202, following the Aspetuck River, then turned off onto Route 37 for a shortcut into New York. There were dark clouds overhead, but the day started off happily.
"Tah, dah, tah, tum, Praise ye the Lord.... Praise Him with the timbrel and dance, dah, dah, dah, dah," I sang, lustily9, snatches of my choral work that soon would be magnified by many voices. "Oh, Prai-i-i-se Him upo-o-o-on" POW! My left tire. My new left tire.
"What in the world?" I exclaimed. "I just bought those tires." The flat had come just as I entered the small town of Sherman, Connecticut, and it posed an immediate dilemma for me. There were two spares sitting grandly in the side-wells along the running boards, but they were mostly for show. They were old and couldn't be trusted. So I ran around trying to find a service stationone open on Sunday. The one I finally found had to call Litchfield, 22 miles away, and have a tire delivered.
Well, I figured, that's okay. I'd allowed an extra hour and a half traveling time.
Annoyed over the delay but glad that I'd started out early, I drove the Packard back onto the highway. "That tire shouldn't have blown. What bad luck," I brooded. Soon, though, I was humming to myself and fantasizing about the reception I'd get for my motet.
"Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet: praise Him with the psaltery and harp ... " HONK! HONK! Someone waved at the Packard. (The Packard always gets a lot of attention.)
The dark clouds had now opened up, and rain pelted down. Then I heard a second Pfffft, flop, flop. My right rear tire!
"This can't be happening!" I said out loud. There I was, in the middle of a downpour on the Saw Mill River Parkway. Straining under the Packard's weight, I began jacking up the car; but the jack broke and splattered me with mud. My temper smoldered.
With good leather shoes sinking in the ooze, I tromped off to find a farmhouse and a phone. A wary woman answered my knock. Through the cracked door, she stared suspiciously at my wet suit, the hair plastered to my forehead, the splotches of mud on my face and clothes.
"Strangers ain't allowed here," she said brusquely10. Slam went the door. Click went the latch. Precious time was lost as I persuaded her through the door to call a service station to come and fix my flat. By this time my head start had eroded11.
The tire changed, I was back at the wheel, sitting damply on the leather seat, spinning down the Saw Mill, trying desperately to make up for lost time. And then, the third tire went. The Packard limped into a nearby service station.
Through clenched teeth, I called my father in Philadelphia and told him to go on to the concert without me. I would meet him as soon as I could get there. Dad tried to soothe me, but it was no use.
Back in the car, my blood pressure was boiling. My moment of triumph had been lost, all because of those miserable tires. I no longer puzzled over the oddity of their going flat. I was too infuriated.
And so, when the fourth one blew, I was a dangerous man. I banged shut the door of the Packard. Not even the rain could cool me off. And where was I this time? On the Henry Hudson Parkway. I could see the city, but I couldn't get to it. Cars whizzed past, barely missing the Packard, parked precariously on the shoulder just at the end of a curve. No one stopped to help; people only honked and yelled warnings and shook their fists.
But I was too angry to give up. I was going to complete this trip if it killed me! Then I heard it, a chug-chug-sputter-sputter, and a jalopy12, driven by an old white-haired man, pulled up behind me. Off went his engine, and the man's head slumped against the steering wheel.
Minutes passed, nothing happened. Still seething, I stomped over to the old car and asked gruffly through the window: "Hey, what are you doing here?"
When the old fellow looked up, I caught my breath. I hadn't expected the serene, compassionate gaze that met my angry glare. His face was almost, well, beautiful; and although he must have been near 80, his eyes seemed ageless.
In a feeble voice, with frequent pauses, he explained, "I'm a little tired, and I thought I'd take a rest."
"A rest!" I yelled. "On the Henry Hudson Parkway?" Could this man be pulling my leg? I wondered. I was beginning to think I was going gaga13.
"And what are you doing here?" the old man asked in a singsong voice.
"I have a flat tire," I snapped. "In fact, it's my fourth flat tire of the day!"
No reply. Then, after a long wait, he said, "There's a garage a mile and a half down, at the next exit. They'll fix it."
"Don't you understand," I fumed, "I have a flat. I can't drive that far on the rim!" Why, I wondered, was I standing here in the rain talking to this old guy?
After another minute's pause, he asked, "Then why don't you fix it?"
I wanted to shake this man until his teeth rattled, I was so mad. "Because my jack broke!" I replied, exasperated14 by this slow-motion conversation.
Looking at my mud-spattered watch, I realized that the concert would be starting soon.
"I have a jack," said the old man, and he handed me the keys to his trunk.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" I said huffily, as I got the jack. As quickly as I could, I changed the tire, then returned the man's jack and keys. Neither of us spoke.
I went back to the Packard, and whacked on the hubcap. Then, feeling guilty about my rudeness, I turned to thank the old gentleman. And I gasped! Jalopy and man had vanished! Without a sound. I remembered the sputtering of his engine when he pulled up behind me. There was no way to sneak off in that car.
I ran up the Parkway and looked into the distance, cars zooming and screeching around me. No trace of him. "I am losing my mind," I said out loud.
Then I began to wonder. Was that man real or wasn't he? The spare tire in place on the front of my car was proof that he'd lent me a jack. But he couldn't have disappeared in those few seconds20 at the mostwhile my back was turned. It was weird. I felt a shiver run down my spine.
On the train ride down to Philadelphia, I continued to puzzle over the old man. Of course, I thought, if it hadn't been for him, I'd still be standing helplessly on the Parkway. But on the other hand, he wasn't all that helpful. He didn't really do anything, in fact, not until I told him point-blank what I needed. And yet, he gave ita jack, that's all I needed. And then he disappeared. Just who was he?
All those flats, I later found out, occurred because the mechanic failed to put on the boots15 with the Packard's new tires. The boots would have protected the tires from the Packard's spoked wheels.
But, you know, I never forgot that old man, and years later, when I grew closer to God, I feltand I believe nowthat that old man was sent to help me. He gave me the help I needed. But he made me ask for it.
"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find ... " (Matthew 7:7).
But wait, there's more to the story of that day. I walked into the concert in Merion, two hours late, just as the choral group burst into "Praise ye the Lord ... Praise Him for His mighty acts ..." The 150th Psalmmy motet! Knowing I was delayed, the conductor pushed it back on the program until he felt he could not hold off any longer; and at that moment, I pushed wearily through the doors.
I sat there, muddy and wet, and listened humbly, as the choir's voice swelled at the end: "Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord."
* * *
Message in the Night
By Joan Wester Anderson
"Bye, Ellen, see you tomorrow!" Eleanor Fisher Odom, then sixteen years old, waved good-bye to her friend as the two parted company on their way home from school. The girls were part of a group who walked daily to West Division High School in Milwaukee in the late 1920s. Ellen Harris, eligible to be school valedictorian16, was their acknowledged "princess," the only daughter of elderly, doting parents. Everyone admired her petite, blond beauty, but today, Eleanor thought Ellen looked a little pale.
The next morning at school. Eleanor learned that Ellen had been rushed to the hospital. "She had emergency surgery last night for a burst appendix." Louise, another friend, spread the news.
"Will she be okay?" Eleanor asked, shocked.
"Sure. We'll visit her when she's feeling better."
But Ellen did not recover. Peritonitis17a common after-surgery infection in those days-set in, then pneumonia18. Ellen died a few days later.
Months passed. Mr. Harris appeared to cope with the grief and staunchly supported his wife. But Mrs. Harris was inconsolablenothing anyone did could make her smile.
Eleanor and her friends tried to comfort the older couple by visiting them frequently. But as Mrs. Harris continued to grieve, they decided that they were not helping at all. "Maybe seeing us just reminds her of Ellen," Louise pointed out.
Eleanor sighed. "There must be a way to help her, but I don't know what it is." Confused, the girls stopped dropping by.
A year passed. Eleanor missed Ellen and wondered how Mrs. Harris was getting along. But she couldn't risk visiting the woman and adding to her sorrow. One night, Eleanor awakened abruptly, to a soft glow spreading throughout the room. As the light moved closer to her bed, it seemed to grow in size and intensity. Eleanor stared in amazement. In the middle of the warm radiance stood a lovely young girl, dressed in a flowing white gown and smiling at her. It was Ellen!
"Oh!" Was she dreaming? But nothe light was real. Eleanor reached out to grasp her friend's hand.
"I've come with a message for you, Eleanor." she said. Although her words were serious, she seemed radiant with joy.
"For me?" Eleanor was awestruck19, butstrangelynot afraid.
"Yes," the girl went on. "Thank you for being so kind to my parents. Please tell my mother I love her, and not to cry for me any longer. Tell her I'm very happy in Heaven."
Before Eleanor could respond, the glow faded. She rubbed her eyes. Ellen had vanished.
Eleanor sat in stunned silence for a moment in the darkness. Why, she had been given a glimpse of Heaven! Jumping out of bed, she ran and woke her mother and told her what had happened. "You must visit Ellen's mother and give her that message," Eleanor's mother told her.
Would Mrs. Harris believe her? Eleanor was worried, but she did as her friend had asked. "And it must have been a comfort to Mrs. Harris, because I never saw her cry again," Eleanor says today. Ellen's mother was active and productive until her death many years laterwhen she was reunited with the daughter who had sent her a comforting message long ago.
* * *
One Last Goodbye
By Joan Wester Anderson
When Ashley Waddle was born, there was more than the usual family rejoicing. That was because Ashley was Mary Stutville's first great-grandchild, and Mary was delighted with being "Nonny" to a new generation.
Ashley's dad, Scott, is a lieutenant commander in the Navy, so he, his wife, Jill, and their little daughter moved frequently, and Mary didn't see Ashley as much as she would have liked. "But we got to Austin, Texas, where Nonny lived with Scott's parents, as often as we could, and sent photographs and letters regularly," says Jill. Nonny and Ashley occasionally talked on the phone too, building their own special bond.
The Waddles were living in Connecticut when they got the news that Nonny was in the hospital, suffering from ulcers. They were worried, but felt certain she would recover. However, her condition worsened. One night, after Scott and Jill had put Ashley to bed on the second floor, they settled down to watch television in their basement rec room. Some time later, Scott's mother called with the news that his grandmother had died.
"It's strange, but Nonny's last thoughts seemed to be of Ashley," Scott's mother told him. "During the past few days your grandmother had been talking about how sweet Ashley is, and how much she missed her." Scott hung up. Ashley wouldn't see Nonny again, not in this life, anyway.
He sat next to Jill and told her what had happened. Both were silent for a while, thinking of the woman they had loved so much. "Should we explain anything to Ashley?" Jill asked.
Scott didn't think it was necessary. Ashley wasn't even three years old and hadn't seen Nonny in several monthswould she even remember her great-grandmother? And sleeping two flights above, she wouldn't have heard them on the phone.
The following morning, Ashley bounded into the bedroom and jumped on Scott and Jill's bed. "I saw Nonny!" she announced cheerfully. "She was in my room last night!"
Jill sat bolt upright. "What do you mean, Ashley?"
"Nonny came and bounced on my bed, just like this!" Ashley gave them a spirited demonstration. "She was happy. Then she said she had to go, because she was going Home to Heaven." Ashley bounced some more. "She's in Heaven now, Mommy. Can I have breakfast?"
Scott and Jill looked at each other, awestruck. They had thought Ashley wouldn't even remember her great-grandmother. Instead, Nonny had transcended time and space to honor a special bondand say goodbye.
* * *
Runaway Rig!
By Dick Dolphin
It was early one summer Saturday when my double trailer was being loaded with hot liquid asphalt20 at a refinery in Santa Maria, California. The temperature of the asphalt was 380 degrees Fahrenheit. As I double-checked all the valve connections, tires and hoses, I thought about the mountain grades between here and the bulk plant in Las Vegas. I'd made the trip many times and I knew my job, my equipment and every mile of the road. I was proud of the safety precautions I took, and I intended to stay out of danger.
When the last trailer of my truck was filled, the rig weighed 79,540 pounds, just under the 80,000 pound limit for trailers in California. After making a final equipment and brake check, I climbed up into the cab, started the engine and pulled out, heading to Highway 166, a two-lane road that swings around Twitchell Reservoir, up across Los Padres National Forest and down through the Cuyama River valley. The day was warm and dry. That meant the asphalt would remain hot enough to be easily unloaded when I rolled into Vegas that evening.
I began the ascent into the Elkhorn Hills, slowly climbing to the top of Grocer Grade. Now it was eight miles downhill into the small town of Maricopa.
I geared down so the engine could help hold my rig to 35 mph on the descent. The first three miles were a series of switchback turns21. The last five miles were just as steep but swept across rolling farmland with wide curves.
I'd just cleared the last of the turns when the rig began gaining speednot much at first, then more and more. The brakes, I thought. They're fading on me. Instinctively I went for the gears. More engine drag might help, so I began downshifting. But something was wrong. As soon as I got into a lower gear, the transmission popped out! It couldn't stand the strain of the lower gear without more assistance from the brakes, and those brakes were getting hotter and less effective by the minute.
I watched the speedometer creep past 50 mph. I applied more air pressure to the brakes, but the rig was beginning to run away on me. All I could do was concentrate on the road ahead and steer. I was getting scared now. Other drivers might get killed if I didn't do something quickI had to protect their lives. I wasn't a religious guy at the time, but turning to God was my only salvation now. God, I prayed, I need You to help me. I can't do this alone.
Instantly, as if a switch had been pulled, everything seemed to go into slow motion. I was able to think clearly without panic. I felt a presence in that cab with me, guiding me.
I was running up fast behind two cars, and in the distance I could see traffic coming up in the other lane. It'll be close, but maybe I can make it. I pulled out and passed the cars, and slid back in line just in the nick of time. I tried the gears again. Nothing.
Now there were three more cars looming ahead in my lane and a tractor-trailer rig a bit in front of them. The distance between us was closing at a terrible rate. It looked like I might be able to pass the cars and squeeze between them and the rig; I'd make it if none of those cars tried to pass each other or the truck. My speedometer was pegged at its maximum: 70 mph. I knew I was going even faster than that, and still gaining speed. Lord, don't let any of them pull out now.
I crossed the center line, flew past the three cars and pulled in behind the truck. Now there was traffic coming from the opposite direction. There was no escaping the trap I'd put myself in. If I rammed the truck, we'd both be consumed in an eruption of hot asphalt. Those big back doors of his were getting closer and closer. I have to think of something fast! He was doing about 35, and I figured I was up around 85.
I noticed the shallow drainage ditch along the right side of the road. The space between it and the shoulder had been graded smooth. With a little luck I can get down there without turning over these trailers. Besides, what choice did I have?
Dust and gravel boiled up as I rocketed along in the ditch. Tractor and both trailers bounced and swayed wildly. Hoses and unloading equipment stored along the side of the tanks flew off. I tried crowding my truck into the bank but nothing seemed to slow it down. Suddenly I remembered there was a culvert22 along here. I didn't know where exactly, but I had to get back on the roadway, and fast. I eased up onto the pavement. The whole rig protested with loud shrieks and shudders, but the trailers stayed with me.
As I came out of the last curve I could see only one car between me and the bottom of the hill. But there were deep ditches on both sides of the highway. I couldn't get off again. An oncoming car prevented me from passing. By now I'd bled off most of my air pumping the brakes; I didn't have enough for a warning blast on the air horns. Then, to my amazement, the oncoming car pulled off the road and stopped. I swung out and sped past the last car in front of me.
I estimated that I was careening23 down the hill at more than 100 mph. I'd be at Maricopa within minutes.
At the foot of the hill the highway curved off to the right by a hamburger stand. Maybe I can make the curve. But chances were I'd probably roll one or both of the trailers into the hamburger place. It was after 11, and the lunch-hour crowd would be gathering. I can't risk it, I reasoned. I'll have to go straight and take my chances.
The road ahead led past a convenience store and terminated at a stop sign at an intersecting highway. On the other side of the intersection was a drainage ditch running parallel to my direction of travel, and a row of houses. If by some miracle I could get through that intersection without hitting anybody, I would go straight off into the dirt between the ditch and those houses.
As I careened off the main highway onto the short road, a car suddenly pulled out from the convenience store and headed for the stop sign. "If he stops, we've had it," I muttered under my breath.
He didn't! He slowed, then made a quick left turn out of my path, never knowing the danger he'd been in.
Dear God, please don't let anyone else cross in front of me. I barreled past the store. I roared through the stop sign and smashed into the curbstone on the far side of the highway.
My cab and both trailers lifted and flew through the air. Somewhere in mid-flight the trailers separated from the cab. When the cab came down about 250 feet away from the highway, it turned slightly to the left, landed on its wheels and slid wildly toward a house.
There was a yard sale going on. Items were neatly laid out on the lawn. But not a soul was in sight. I watched in horror as my rig ripped across the yard.
Still in slow motion, I saw the corner of the house eaves punch in my windshield just as the front of my truck tore through a wall with a sickening crunch. Then, finally, everything stopped. The jagged eaves were only inches from my face.
The trailers had flown some 200 feet and landed on their sides against a tree near the far end of the house. As I stumbled away from the wreckage, the tank on the lead trailer, less than 200 feet from me, cracked open. The scalding asphalt ran out, flowing around the tractor and both sides of the house, engulfing all of the yard sale items.
There was no fire and no one was hurt. My left ear was cut, but my injuries weren't serious. As people gathered at the scene, I kept them away from the hot asphalt.
A few minutes later the man who had pulled off the road just in time drove up. He'd turned around and followed me. "I could see you were in trouble," he said, "and I got off the road." I could have hugged him.
Then I learned that just before I came hurtling across the highway, the occupants of the house I hit had been called away on an emergency. They hadn't even had time to pack up their yard sale. Only minutes earlier their four-year-old daughter had been playing on the spot where I landed.
I don't know why God chose to save me, but I have never stopped giving Him thanks. Today God is part of my daily routine. And I've learned the most important safety preparation of all: a prayer to my Heavenly Father to protect and guide me on the road, wherever it may lead.
Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions which can be applied to each of the stories in this magazine. After reading each story, you can choose several of these questions for discussion. You do not necessarily need to ask or discuss every question after reading every story, but please choose those which apply and are helpful.
1. Is there anything that could have been done to avoid the difficult situation the people in this story found themselves in?
2. The people in the story responded in one way to what happened to them.What are some other ways that people might react if the same thing happened to them?
3. Does this story show you anything about the benefits of the training, education and instruction you have received? Please discuss.
4. How might you have reacted if this had happened to you? How do you think you should react in similar situations? What would you pray and ask God to do?
5. Did you feel that the people in these stories could have been more of a witness? If so, how?
6. What lessons could you learn from a situation like this?
7. Why do you think God allowed this situation for these people?
8. Is there anything in these stories that you don't understand?
9. Did the Lord do a miracle in this story? If so, how did He use the miracle in the lives of the people in the story? Did it bring a change in their lives?
10. What specific answers to prayer are there in this story?
11. Does this story encourage your faith that God will help you in difficult, dangerous or seemingly impossible situations?
12. Have you ever experienced the Lord doing a miracle to save your life or someone else's? If so, what was it? Did it change your outlook on life or your relationship with the Lord or others?
Glossary for Young Readers
(The meaning given is for the use of the word in the story and does not cover every meaning of the word.)
1 payloader: an excavating machine with a large scoop in front for moving and lifting earth, rocks, and rubble
2 meningitis: inflammation of the membranes in the brain and the spinal cord, most often caused by a bacterial or viral infection and characterized by fever, vomiting and intense headache
3 dehydration: physical condition where the body has lost water and is drying out
4 hypothermia: a condition of reduced body temperature caused by exposure to extreme cold
5 pediatric cardiologist: doctor who deals with the care of infants and children, specifically regarding disorders of the heart
6 concurred: of the same opinion; in agreement
7 giddiness: A reeling or lightheaded sensation; dizziness
8 chassis: framework which holds the body and motor of a vehicle, to which the axles and wheels are attached
9 lustily: heartily, strong
10 brusque: blunt, abrupt
11 eroded: diminished, deteriorated, or disappeared as if by eating into or wearing away
12 jalopy: an old, dilapidated motor vehicle
13 gaga: crazy or overly agitated over something
14 exasperated: very angry or impatient; greatly annoyed
15 boots: protective covering inside the rim of the wheel
16 valedictorian: the student with the highest academic rank in a class who delivers the valedictory (closing or farewell statement or address) at graduation
17 peritonitis: inflammation of the peritoneum, the membrane (body tissue) that lines the walls of the abdomen (belly)
18 pneumonia: An acute or chronic disease marked by inflammation of the lungs and caused by viruses, bacteria, or other microorganisms
19 awestruck: full of awe, wonder
20 asphalt: smooth, hard, black, tar-like mixture used in surfacing roads
21 switchback turns: a series of sharp bends in a road or trail on a steep incline
22 culvert: the part of a road or embankment that passes over a sewer or drain
23 careening: rushing headlong or carelessly