Power and Protection! CLTP 29    True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!--Part 19      DFO.

(For 9 years old and up. Selected stories may be read with younger children at the adults' discretion.)

Stories courtesy of Guideposts; Where Miracles Happen by Joan Wester Anderson; and Angels Are Everywhere, by Peggy O. McCall

(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)

Table of Contents:
         Deliverance from the Depths      1
         In the Great Physician's Hands   2
         Miracles from Beyond     4
         Good News Vendor         7
         Our Roadside Angel       8
         The Unseen Visitor       9
         Discussion Questions     12
         Glossary for Young Readers       12

Deliverance from the Depths
--By Joan Wester Anderson
         In April 1993, Don Spann and John Thomas pulled out of the Charleston, South Carolina, harbor on Don's forty-six-foot boat, Perseverance, for a routine two-day cruise to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
         By the middle of the second day, however, clouds had rolled in and the ocean was rough. John manned the helm while Don sat in the back, his life vest beside him on the seat.
         The boat dipped and bounced. Don had just gotten to his feet when it smacked against an especially high wave. Off balance, he cartwheeled over the side, and plunged into the ocean.
         Perseverance had already passed when Don surfaced. Frantically, he whistled, waved his arms, and yelled. "John! I'm here! Turn around!" But the craft continued on, John facing forward and unaware of Don's fall. Don watched it for five or six more waves, listened to the motor a little longer. Then silence descended. It was the loneliest sound he had ever heard.
         Surely John would discover his absence right away, and return! Don scanned the horizon, remembering his Marine Corps training to fight panic, and waited. Ten minutes passed, and nothing happened.
         What was he going to do? The ocean temperature was low enough to cause hypothermia [1] if he didn't keep moving. But how long could he tread water? And would his movements cause a cramp, or, worse, attract sharks? What if he drowned, or was mauled by fish and washed ashore later? How would his family deal with such a trauma?
         He removed his shoes, attempting to use them as flotation aids, but they only became waterlogged, and he let them float away. His breathing was more labored now, and it was harder to float on either his stomach or his back. Twenty minutes passed. Twenty-five. ...
         It had been a long time since Don had thought much about God. But now he prayed aloud. "God," he said as waves rolled over him, "You're using some drastic measures to get my attention. I'm sorry I haven't been smart enough to listen to You. But if You let me live, I'll fulfill Your mission for me, whatever that might be."
         Then Don thought he heard a voice inside him. Was it God? No, this voice seemed seductive [2], even frightening. "Don," it whispered, "you're not going to get out of this situation. Why don't you relax and die peacefully?"
         Don ignored the voice. But it came again, this time more insistent. "Give up, give up. ... "
         "No!" Don answered aloud. "I'm going to fight!" But how? He had been in the water far too long, and he was colder, slower. Would he go under soon, for the last time?
         "Let go, Don," the insidious [3] voice pushed at him once more. "It would be so easy. ... "
         "I won't," Don said through clenched, chattering teeth. He knew he was being tempted, in death just as in life. But almost unconsciously he clung to a security he had known long ago. God, be with me now, he prayed. "I won't give up!" he shouted to the nameless enemy. "Even if I'm ten feet under!"
         His voice echoed across the waves. Somehow he knew that the insidious voice had gone. He was alone again.
         It had been almost an hour now, and slowly Don began to sink. At times he would think he was above the waves, only to open his eyes and realize he was under. That's why, at first, he wasn't sure he heard the engine noise. Then, as if in a dream, he spotted something moving toward him. It was just a few inches long at first ... a boat, with a figure at the helm--John scanning the horizon with glasses! "I heard him elatedly shout my name, and I knew that he had seen me," Don says. "I think, just for a moment, I blacked out."
         But John's shout roused him. "Catch the line!"
         Exhausted, Don reached for the rope, wrapping it around his arm because he was too weak to grasp it in his hand.
         "I remember being pulled through the water and getting tangled up," Don says. He couldn't make it! But then he felt strong hands gripping his right bicep and right forearm, holding him up. John! Why had he gotten into the water? Who was manning the boat?
         And now there was a second set of hands on his other side, gripping his left bicep and forearm. The hands seemed to push him, propelling him through that last impossible distance. Where had John found an extra person to help?
         Somehow Don was under the swim ladder, and John was yelling at him: "Grab hold! Grab hold!"
         But Don couldn't. His exhausted, frozen muscles refused to work anymore. He would drown here after all. ... But then he felt firm hands underwater, placing his foot on the lowest rung. Firm palms pushed on his bottom. "Suddenly I was standing straight up on the ladder," he says. "And John who is fifty pounds lighter, flipped me around and dragged me in."
         A Coast Guard helicopter eventually plucked Don from the Perseverance and took him to Jacksonville University Hospital, where he stayed for four days, being treated for the results of hypothermia. Only later did Don recall the strange events surrounding his rescue.
         "John," he asked one day, "who else pulled me into the boat?"
         John frowned. "What are you talking about?"
         "I know you were in the water with someone else, because I felt two sets of hands holding me up," Don explained. "In fact, I couldn't climb the ladder, and you both pushed me."
         John wore a strange expression. "I was never in the water, Don," he said. "I pulled you in from the swim platform. And I was alone."
         Today Don is healthy, and back at the helm of his boat and his life. "I'm not sure why I was spared from temptation and from death," he says. "But I sense that I am to pay attention and wait to be shown what I am to do." And while he waits, he gives thanks.--To John, for his skill and courage, but most of all to Heavenly hands that came in answer to his prayers.
* * *
In the Great Physician's Hands
--By Joan Wester Anderson
         January 20, 1992, in Larsen, Wisconsin, dawned sunny but bitterly cold. A good day to stay inside, Mary Mueller decided, hoping that her pager would remain mute [4]. In addition to working a factory shift and running a 131-acre farm, Mary is a member of the Clayton-Winchester Township volunteer fire department, and she relishes her time helping.
         In the middle of a shower and shampoo, however, Mary heard the pager squawking details about a car on fire less than two miles away. The dispatcher [5] requested fire trucks, and it sounded serious.
         Mary felt literally propelled into action. She barely dried herself, stuffed her dripping hair under a helmet, raced into the subzero morning, and leaped into her pickup. Because this was a daytime call at the far end of the district's rural boundary, Mary knew that farmers would be the only ones responding--and that could take a long time.
         Except for the passing volunteer who had phoned in the report, Mary was the first rescue worker on the scene. It resembled the aftermath of an explosion. Although there was no fire (first accounts were inaccurate), a pile of twisted metal lay on the highway. Wreckage was strewn across the fields and road shoulder. To Mary, the site seemed mysteriously stripped of color, ominous [6] in black, white, and gray.
         There was no sign of a second vehicle. Mary would later learn that a semitrailer had been pulling a front-end loader with metal tracks, on a flatbed. An oncoming car carrying three university students had swerved into the protruding steel treads, which had sheared off the car's roof like a giant can opener. The truckdriver had continued on for another mile or so, initially unaware of the accident.
         But now Mary investigated quickly. A young man, obviously dead, lay under the station wagon's left front bumper. The other volunteer was consoling a young woman pinned inside the wreckage. Mary rounded the metal tangle toward the passenger side, then stopped. Was that a third body in the ditch? She ran, sliding down the incline on her knees.
         A blond girl, about 21, looked up at Mary with terrified eyes. Mary felt an instant bond. "I'm Mary," she told the young woman. "I'm a firefighter, and we're going to help you, but we need your cooperation, okay?"
         The girl nodded, trembling. "I'm Lori."
         Before moving a patient, rescue workers must make an assessment. Gently, Mary examined Lori's left side and found only a bruised calf. "When I got to her right shoulder, it was a mess," Mary says. "I padded it up best I could, and kept looking."
         But as she lifted a lock of Lori's hair to check a trickle of blood, Mary gasped. She was looking at a serious head wound at least six inches long, forming a pool of blood underneath the girl. Lori's heavy clothes and matted hair had hidden the horrible fact that she was bleeding to death right in front of Mary.
         How could she stop the flow? Mary had first-aid training, "but firefighters are primarily expected to fight fires," she notes. "We don't carry medical supplies." Coming from miles away, the equipment van carrying medical supplies might not arrive for fifteen or twenty minutes. Mary needed pressure bandages immediately. What about her fireman's gloves? No. They were big enough but dirty, and pressing them against such a horrible wound would introduce infection. "God," Mary prayed, "please help me help her. There's no way I can do this on my own."
         What could she use? Worried, Mary looked to her left. Nothing but fresh, undisturbed snow across the fields. She glanced to her right, to a group of bystanders forming along the highway. Maybe one of them had something sterile to stem the flow. For a moment, she looked back at Lori--and her heart seemed to stop at what she saw. In the snow to Mary's left, half an arm's length away, "just where you want your material," sat a dark-red bag with black handles and a black medical emblem.
         Who had brought it in that split second when Mary had looked away? There was no one near her, no footprints marring the smooth snow. And the bag looked nothing like the fluorescent-orange ones that local emergency personnel used.
         Mary didn't have time to wonder. She hit the clip, and the bag snapped open to reveal a veritable pharmacy. Rubber gloves, tape, bandages, and absorbent squares of every kind and size, all sealed in sterile containers--everything that she needed was there, in the order in which she would need it. Quickly Mary went to work, applying as much pressure as she could against the gaping wound, adding new gauze squares as the old ones became saturated.
         "Come to the hospital with me, Mary, please," Lori muttered.
         "I will, honey. Just hang on."
         Firefighters didn't go to hospitals with victims as a rule, but Mary couldn't imagine leaving this girl. Something seemed to be holding them together in a protective glass bubble, shielded from the horror, somehow safe. Mary knew the Life Flight helicopter had arrived--she could hear the engine descending. But she and Lori didn't feel the propeller's blast of wind. Nor was either of them cold, despite the subzero temperatures.
         As personnel loaded the other girl into the helicopter, paramedics [7] arrived and ran to assess Lori's condition. "Stay with me, Mary," Lori pleaded, her voice fading now.
         Mary nodded. Her fingers ached with the strain, and her hair had frozen solid under her helmet. But she still felt that strange--and loving connection. They would have to pry her away from Lori.
         But Lori had lost too much blood to survive a helicopter trip. "There's only one thing to do, Mary," a paramedic decided. "You're going to have to hold Lori's life in your hands--literally."
         "How?"
         "We'll show you." Quickly, the paramedics taped Mary's hands against Lori's wound. It took six men to haul both women out of the ditch without disturbing their arrangement. Sirens screamed, lights flashed.
         Mary smiled down at the girl as the van raced against time. "I told you we'd stay together," she reminded her.
         It was hours before both victims stabilized and Mary felt able to relinquish [8] her link with Lori. Only then did she remember the mysterious medical bag. She drove back to the scene to retrieve it.
         Several firefighters had seen Mary using the bag and had assumed it was hers. If anyone had come across it, he would have returned it to her. Nor had the site been left unattended. Since the accident, it had been under constant surveillance [9]. The workers painstakingly collected all accident fragments, but no trace of the medical bag or discarded bandages, wrappings, gauze, or other debris from the bag was ever found.
         Today, Mary and Lori enjoy a close friendship, forged during those desperate moments in a ditch, when both felt held in the Divine Physician's hands.
* * *
Miracles from Beyond
--Compiled from Guideposts and Where Miracles Happen by Joan Wester Anderson
         My home was a two-bedroom trailer, and the winter of 1978 was just beginning in rural western Oklahoma when I heard the weather report on television: An ice storm was coming. In preparation, I gathered blankets, and sure enough, the power went out. I said a prayer that God would get me through the night safely and made myself comfortable on the couch, huddling under the blankets. At midnight I awoke as the TV and lights came back on. Feeling all was well, I turned everything off and stumbled to bed.
         Fifteen minutes later, I was awakened from a sound sleep. A voice was calling me urgently, a voice I always heeded unquestioningly. "Patti, get up," Mother said.
         A glow was coming from the kitchen. I jumped out of bed and ran to see flames shooting from the hot-water tank. I rushed outside. By the time the firemen arrived, the trailer was totally engulfed in flames. Numb with exhaustion, I watched as the fire consumed my home.
         Other family members arrived from nearby, and we surveyed the ruins. "Thank God you got out," my sister said. "What if you hadn't woken up in time?" It was then I told them the story of how I had been roused by Mother's voice. The others stared at me in disbelief.
         Why was it so amazing to think that she had saved my life? Because Mother had passed away in March the year before.
         God had sent me a message I could not ignore.--Patti Bohlman

* * *
         Not much was known about addiction in the 1940s when, as a farm youngster, Bob began to drink. By the time he was thirty-two years old, with a wife and three small children, Bob was an alcoholic. Suddenly his father died, leaving Bob to run the well-drilling business both had started several years before. "My dad missed his father very much," says daughter Chris Tuttle, "and he began to think more seriously about how he was living his own life." In April 1967, Bob completely stopped drinking.
         A short time later, Bob hired a young drifter, Pete, who was also an alcoholic. Separated from his wife, Pete had no place to stay and no transportation to and from work at the drilling well. Bob gave Pete a job, a room in his own house, and support in his attempts to stay sober. "My dad really cared a lot about helping others in need," Chris recalls. "It was not uncommon for him to lend a hand or befriend someone in Pete's position."
         But despite Bob's kindness, Pete couldn't handle sobriety [10]. He returned to alcohol, and shortly after, committed suicide.
         Grief and shock over the loss of two significant people in his life, the strain of running a business, providing for his family's needs, and controlling his own addiction--it all seemed to push Bob to the brink. Gradually, his personality changed. Once lively, he became depressed, lethargic, and uncommunicative. He refused to sleep at night and paced the floor. Worried, his mother and wife brought him to the psychiatric [11] ward of a veterans' hospital.
         But the day after Bob was hospitalized, his wife received a call from the ward. "Your husband is missing," an official told her. "He seems to have walked away."
         "My mother was stunned," Chris recalls. "She told the authorities to begin a search right away." Worried friends and relatives gathered at the house. Some wept. Something terrible could happen to Bob. What should they do?
         Six-year-old Chris was confused. "Why is everyone upset?" she asked.
         "We can't find your father, honey," one of the relatives tried to explain.
         Wasn't that what God was for? the little girl wondered. "All we have to do is tell Him about it," she pointed out.
         The woman looked at Chris. Out of the mouths of babes...
         "You pray for your daddy," she said.
         Chris climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers. She thought about her father. What did it matter if others thought him lost? God knew where he was. "God," she whispered, "I prayed for Daddy, and that's all I can do. You take care of him now. I'm tired and I'm going to sleep." And she did.
         A few hours later, hospital officials found Bob. He had been wandering on a four-lane interstate highway several miles from the institution. He had no money, no telephone numbers to call, and nowhere to go for help. Furthermore, witnesses told authorities that Bob was deliberately moving to the middle of whichever lane had oncoming traffic, apparently so melancholy [12] that being killed by a car seemed his only remaining option. But, unbelievably, nothing hit him. Always, the cars seemed to swerve just in time.
         "The explanation Dad gave later convinced everyone he was hallucinating [13]," Chris says. As a result, he was diagnosed as mentally ill and was returned to the hospital for treatment. He responded well, however, and was soon back with his family, his life restored.
         But Bob and Chris attribute his cure to more than doctors and therapy. For Bob still maintains that he was not alone as he roamed the dangerous highway that night. Walking on either side of him, he says, were his father and his friend Pete, once again alive and healthy. "We've come to protect you, Bob," each of the men explained. And that's what they did, shielding him from speeding cars, banishing his lonely desolation, guarding him until help came.
         Bob never saw the men again. But he believes they came that night in answer to a little girl's summons--and brought him healing and hope.
*
         As the youngest of three girls, Chris Costello of Burbank, California, had always tried to "catch up" to her middle sister, Carole. The two experienced much sibling rivalry [14] through adolescence and young adulthood. "There were those long and sometimes painful stretches when, due to an argument, Carole and I would not talk to each other. Instead, each of us would go to our oldest sister for advice and consolation," Chris recalls. Both girls shared music as a bond, however, and though they never performed together, each worked for a while as a professional singer.
         In 1987, Chris and Carole reached a turning point, and old conflicts no longer really mattered. "One night we just sat and talked," Chris recalls. "For the first time we were able to look at each other and share our love." The evening brought much healing. And it had come just in time, for three months later, Carole suddenly died of a brain aneurysm [15].
         In the days that followed the funeral, Chris was inconsolable, her grief complicated by the realization that she and Carole had wasted precious time. "I walked around like a zombie," she says. "All I really wanted was to know that Carole was okay." Once she seemed to sense the aroma of Carole's perfume enfolding her. On another occasion, she had a dream in which Carole appeared, smiling and happy, and told Chris she loved her. These little signs soothed Chris. But did they really mean anything?
         A month later, Chris was still hurting. One night as she lay in bed, she whispered again and again, "Please, Carole, give me a sign that you're okay."
         Suddenly, Chris felt a bright light. She shut her eyes tighter and put her arm over them. But the light became more intense, penetrating through her arm, her closed eyes, wrapping her in its brilliance.
         Chris was afraid. "In my mind, I begged whatever it was to go away--I didn't want to open my eyes and see some sort of apparition [16]," she says. At her plea, the light slowly faded, and everything returned to normal.
         But now Chris felt ashamed. She had asked for a sign from Carole, then refused to acknowledge it. Had God sent that unusual radiance to answer her prayer, to let her know that her sister was safe and happy?
         A few nights later, Chris awakened--at exactly 3:20 A.M.--to beautiful celestial music wafting through her darkened bedroom. The music was exquisite, indescribable, involving "instrumentation I have never heard before, could never begin to define, despite my musical background," she says. "Even with all the high-tech equipment available now in recording studios, I doubt anyone could duplicate it." Chris listened, enthralled [17] and moved to tears. Was this Carole, communicating with her through music, their closest tie?
         The next morning, Chris' oldest sister phoned. "Chris, last night I sensed Carole's presence all around me," she said. "She was there--she was okay--I just know it!"
         "What time did this happen?" Chris asked.
         "Exactly 3:20 in the morning."
         Chris felt her sorrow drain away and a newfound sense of peace replace it. Carole was indeed singing with the angels and had sent her a taste of wonders unseen.
*
         When I was 23 years old, my beloved father died a week before I learned that I was pregnant with my first child. I was devastated that I would not be able to share my baby with my most favorite person in all the world.
         When my child was born, I gave him my father's name for his middle name. As a new mother, I enjoyed changing my son's cute little outfit several times a day. But I was very sad that I would never be able to see my father and my son together.
         My son slept in a wooden cradle at the foot of our bed. Every night, before going to sleep I double-checked that the peg on the cradle was locked so the baby couldn't rock the cradle and fall out during the night.
         One night I was awakened. The room was lit by a glow beside the baby's cradle. As I looked, I saw the image of my father. He was rocking the cradle and crooning [18] silly nonsense words to the baby. The same words he used to say to me when I was a small child.
         Then he smiled at me and said, "He is your dolly," in his native language. Then the room plunged into pitch black.
         I was sure I had just awakened from a dream. I turned on the bedside lamp, deciding to look at my son since I was awake. When I went to the cradle, I found it was swinging slowly. It was unlocked.
         As I set the pin again for the rest of the night, I felt a warmth surge through my body. A contentment came over me; I felt my father wanted me to know that he could see his grandson, loved him and was pleased.--Donna Bamford
* * *
Good News Vendor
--By Lloyd S. Decker
         Everyone called him Shorty, and with good reason. He was barely five feet tall. No one knew his real name. But he was as reliable as the sun, and people often said he was in partnership with it. Every morning they both arrived at the corner of Canal and Parkway in Miami Springs, Florida, to begin their 15-hour day together. The sun shone from the heavens while Shorty sold newspapers to passing motorists.
         There was no newsstand or store; Shorty operated from the sidewalk. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, lightweight pants and a sweat-stained broad-brimmed hat.
         Back then I was a member of an Air Force Reserve unit stationed at Miami International Airport. Called up because of the Korean War, I lived off base in a rented basement room in a private home. Driving to and from work, I couldn't help noticing Shorty.
         In those days military pay was small and paydays a month apart. To relieve the boredom of evenings with little to spend I would stay home and try to read the Bible my father had given me. I didn't really understand the concepts and so the words had little meaning for me.
         One evening, frustrated with my Bible reading, I tossed the heavy black book onto the dresser and walked outside.
         The sun had set and the temperature was comfortably cool. Passing Canal and Parkway, I could see Shorty counting papers as he closed down his operation. I crossed the bridge and headed up the street, stopping to say hello to the cook at my favorite restaurant. I told the cook I had been especially frugal that month. With one day to go till payday, I still had three whole dollars left and intended to spend them on something special. With the three dollars I could go to the lounge across the street, order a drink and flirt with the pianist.
         Then the door opened and in walked Shorty. He removed his dirty hat. His short bowed legs took him to the stool next to mine and he sat down with a long sigh. His white hair was matted with sweat and his hands were black from newsprint. He fumbled in one pocket, then the other, and finally pulled out a few coins.
         "I guess I got enough for a bowl of soup," he said.
         The forces of light versus dark went to work. Give the man your three dollars so he can have a full meal, a voice within me said. Not on your life! Another voice argued.
         I headed for the door fast, before the first voice won. But then I stopped, turned around and took the three bills out of my pocket. The top one was marked by the scrawl of a teller's red pen: "50/J.C." I shoved the money in Shorty's direction and said, "Here. Have a good meal."
         Fire leaped from his tired blue eyes. "I don't take no charity."
         "Who said anything about charity? This is just a loan. I expect the money back."
         Shorty scooped up the bills and ordered a hamburger steak with all the trimmings. I watched him devour the food. Somehow we began to talk about the Bible and I told him how much trouble I had understanding it. "Pray before you read," he said, "then you'll know what it has to say." When I told him I was worried about being shipped out to Korea, he said with certainty, "You'll be shipped out all right, but not to Korea."
         The next morning I didn't see Shorty at his corner. And that was too bad, because I was handed my orders that day. I hurriedly stuffed my earthly goods in a duffel bag and followed the others aboard a plane. I turned to my comrade in the adjoining seat and asked if he knew how long it would take to get to Korea.
         "Who's going to Korea?" he asked.
         I took a closer look at my orders, reading the small print. To my surprise I was on my way to Chanute Air Force Base in Rantoul, Illinois, for six months of training.
         How right you were, Shorty, I thought.
         Life in Illinois proved to be difficult. School was hard, the weekdays were too long, weekends were too short. It was freezing cold in the winter. By December I could hardly wait to get back to Miami.
         I was released two days before Christmas, but when I went to buy a train ticket I discovered I was three dollars short. All my buddies had left already, and the base was nearly empty. I went back to the orderly room, sat down on my duffel bag, wondering what to do, dreaming of a warm tropical clime.
         Suddenly my trance was interrupted by the voice of the top sergeant. "What are you doing here?" he barked. I relayed my sad plight. "You mean you're three bucks shy of getting home for Christmas?" he asked.
         I nodded yes. He turned to his two assistants and said, "Let's each give the kid a buck. Come on, kid. We'll give you a lift to the station."
         Thanks to them, I was off on a train to Miami. As soon as I arrived in Florida and collected my pay, I sent the sergeant and his friends their money. Then I set out to find Shorty.
         I asked at the restaurant. I asked around the base. I called the newspaper to find out where he had gone. No one had seen him in six months.
         But his effect on me had lasted. I found myself doing just what he had suggested. I prayed before I read the Bible, and understanding came to me. Every night I returned to my tiny basement room, picked up the Bible, prayed, then read. The Scriptures began to come alive.
         Three months passed. My prayer and Bible reading aroused a new faith in me. I became confident that God really did exist and that He would answer my prayers.
         One evening my stomach growled as I read. It was the day before payday again, and I didn't have a cent.
         "Lord," I prayed, "I'm hungry. Help me find something to eat."
         I ambled out of my room, and headed to town. I paused for a moment at the corner of Canal and Parkway, wishing Shorty were still around. As I started to cross the street, I had to wait for a long black limousine to pass. I had just put one foot off the sidewalk when the squeal of brakes turned my head. The limo was backing up toward me.
         I stared at the huge car that had stopped inches away. The rear door swung open and out climbed Shorty, dressed in a pure white linen suit with matching leather shoes. From underneath a spotless panama hat he smiled, but now his face was clean and shiny, and his once-matted hair looked soft and smooth.
         "Hi, Son," he said. "How have you been?" He reached into his pocket and retrieved some money. "I owe you three bucks, remember? Bet it was cold in Illinois, huh? Good to see you back. God bless."
         He crushed the bills into my hand, got back in the car, and it roared off. It all happened so fast I never got to say a word.
         In a daze, I jammed the money into my pocket, went to the restaurant and walked to my usual stool. I took out the crumpled bills, three of them, just the right amount. Then I realized that the one on top had the same teller's red mark as the one I'd given him: "50/J.C."
         More than 40 years have passed, and the questions have remained. Who was Shorty? Where did he come from? Where did he go? What did he do with my money? And how did he know I'd been in Illinois?
         I realize I'll never know the answers. What I do know is that there is no way to predict through what odd circumstances or unlikely people God's grace will come to us.
* * *
Our Roadside Angel
--By Adele and Jay Rodriquez
         Our lives were significantly changed on October 7, 1994, when my husband Jay and I took a short road trip through Florida's West Coast--only one month after Jay had undergone surgery, from which he was recovering very quickly.
         About one hour into desolate Alligator Alley in Everglades Country with not a service station visible for at least another hour, Jay announced we had a flat tire.
         Cautiously, he drove the car to the closest side-shoulder spot off the highway. My heart stopped a little as I thought: Strong as Jay appeared, he had been told by his doctors not to exert himself--much less under the 90 degree (Farenheit) plus temperature.
         I possess no mechanical abilities, and since my presence there to help change a tire was a big zero, I suggested we call our road service company from the nearest call box even if this implied a wait of a good couple of hours.
         On the other hand, my "Boy-Scout"-type husband was very handy, mechanically capable, quite accustomed to solving his own flats. Therefore he was adamantly [19] against my solution and insisted on handling the problem--slowly and with my help.
         Without further hesitation, he tackled the task. The picture we presented to the passing traffic was certainly not one of a major crisis nor one which would provoke a by-passer to stop to help: broad daylight, a strong-looking, capable mature man on his knees changing a tire, with a strong-looking mature woman beside him.
         I was praying non-stop for him when suddenly, from nowhere, a van pulled up behind us, and a strong young man emerged, offering help. Stunned at this modern knight in shining armor, we wondered: What made him stop when we showed no obvious sign of a major distress? He wasn't aware of Jay's recent surgery.
         Self-sufficient Jay thanked him, but declined help. In turn, I looked at him with pleading and thankful eyes, explaining that I considered him a true blessing because of my husband's convalescent [20] condition.
         I felt such a peace as he replied: "I know, and that is why I am here--you see, Jesus is looking after you." He gently but firmly persuaded Jay to "pay attention to his wife" and to accept his help since he had turned just to help when he saw us, as he was going in the opposite direction.
         Our young savior worked quickly and diligently, perspiring heavily as the job did not turn out to be as easy as Jay had foreseen. The tire bolts were extremely tight, and it took much kicking and force to loosen them.
         I could only think about how dangerous it would have been for Jay. What if something had happened to him in the middle of the Everglades with absolutely nothing around for miles and miles?
         With the bolts loosened, the unidentified young man took a look at our small jack, and ran to his car, pulling out an unopened box containing a brand-new hydraulic jack he "had just bought."
         At this point my thanksgiving prayers intensified--there was no doubt that the young man was God-sent, but still I never associated him with an angel--not yet!
         When he finished and prepared to leave, we couldn't thank him enough. My first impulse was to kiss him and ask his name. His name was "Larry," he said, pulling out two cards and handing one to each of us.
         The card portrayed Jesus' nail-pierced hand, palm up, with blood flowing out of the wound, and underneath it read "Jesus loved you so much it hurt!" and with this he left.
         Jay and I were very affected by what had occurred. We knew that God's hand had intervened without a doubt.
* * *
The Unseen Visitor
--By Lori White
         "Be careful!" I called over my shoulder from the bedroom as my two sons, Jordan, five, and Hunter, three, made a beeline outside to play in the yard.
         It was Friday afternoon and we were moving that weekend from Conover, North Carolina, down the road a ways to Hickory. My husband, Chan, had just pulled into the driveway towing a rugged metal trailer that he had brought home from our family car dealership to haul some boxes and small pieces of furniture.
         The house and yard were in complete disarray and the boys were having a blast poking around. But just as my friend Joyce and I started cleaning out the closet, a sickening thud reverberated through the house.
         "What in the world ... " I started to say to Joyce. An instant later I heard Chan shout in a voice pinched with panic, "Lori! Lori! Come quick!"
         I ran downstairs to the front hall. There I saw Chan, ashen-faced, holding a limp, unrecognizable figure of a little boy covered in blood. Blood streamed from his mouth, his ears, and from a terrible gash in his head.
         "The--the trailer ramp," Chan stammered. "It slammed down on him when I wasn't looking ..."
         "Dear God ... " The boy wore green tennis shoes. It was Jordan.
         "Lori, we've got to get him to a doctor."
         I snatched a blanket off the sofa and we wrapped it around his unconscious form. Joyce stayed behind to watch Hunter as Chan and I leapt into our car. I gunned the engine and the car roared out the driveway. Chan grabbed the cellular phone and called 911 to have them alert our local hospital that we were coming. As we sped down the road we exchanged frantic glances and tried to soothe Jordan. Chan told him over and over again how much we loved him.
         At the emergency room, attendants scooped Jordan from Chan's arms. We watched helplessly while medical personnel worked over our boy. Just minutes before, he had been an exuberant [21] child. Chan wrapped his arms around me and I buried my face in his shoulder. A doctor glanced over at us. "We need to transfer him to Frye," he said. "They're better equipped." Equipped for what? I wondered, my whole being churning with fear.
         Chan and I waited in the treatment room with Jordan and a nurse for the ambulance to Frye Regional Medical Center across town. As Chan signed some documents I stood over Jordan and told him that no matter what happened, his daddy and I loved him and that we were praying.
         Suddenly Jordan moved. At first I thought it was my imagination, but Chan and the nurse saw it too. Then, slowly, Jordan raised up to nearly a sitting position, as if someone were gently supporting him with an arm behind his back. His soot-black lashes fluttered open and in a weak but clear voice he said, "Jesus, take care of me ... " His eyes closed peacefully and he sank back down, motionless once again. The nurse looked at us in bewildered disbelief.
         A cry gathered in my throat. We had taken our boys to church and taught them to pray, but usually they only said their prayers at the table and bedtime. Here was Jordan reaching out in a moment of terrible, desperate need. I too would have to reach out with such sure faith. Just then the curtains swept back and Jordan, Chan and I were rushed to a waiting ambulance.
         The evening dissolved in a blur. At Frye, Jordan was wheeled straight in for a CAT scan [22] of his brain. Chan's parents were at our side, as were mine. Other family and friends had gotten word and come. A minister and people from church gathered in the emergency room. We were surrounded by folks who loved us and prayed with us. Yet Chan and I didn't know whether our little boy would live.
         Finally, Dr. Gregory Rosenfeld, a neurosurgeon23, spoke with us. X rays revealed that Jordan's skull had been fractured by the heavy trailer gate, crushing fragments of bone into the area of the brain that governs speech, hearing and memory. "There is no telling the extent of the damage," Dr. Rosenfeld explained, "until we go in and look." It was only fair, he said, to warn us that the injury was very serious. As Jordan was sped into surgery, I broke down and sobbed.
         The people who had gathered held hands in prayer. We prayed that the surgeon's skilled hands would be blessed and guided. The love of our friends and family flowed through Chan and me, and an incredible, almost spontaneous feeling of peace and acceptance overpowered our fears. Six hours later Dr. Rosenfeld emerged and, pulling down his surgical mask, motioned us down the hall to a room and opened the door. "Come say hello to Jordan."
         Chan and I moved to Jordan's bedside. He was pale and his head was swathed in a turban of bandages. I reached out to him, Oh, Jordan. ... It was then I heard the sweetest sound of my life: A tiny burp erupted from my son, followed by a whispered, "Excuse me."
         Not only could Jordan speak, but he still had his manners! By the time they sent him up to the Neuro Intensive Care Unit, he was asking the nurse for a toothbrush. "The doctors don't know what to think about this boy," she said. Still, we were warned that Jordan could take a turn for the worse at any time, and that seizures [24] were a serious possibility with such an invasive [25] head trauma.
         Most worrisome, though, was the fear that his brain might develop an infection. Ahead of Jordan lay a series of intravenous [26] antibiotic [27] treatments to fight this potentially fatal complication. We were cautioned that the sessions would be painful for Jordan.
         I stayed at Jordan's side all night but could not sleep. Once, near morning, Jordan moaned with nausea and everyone came rushing. I held him and he said, "Mommy, pray with me."
         Over those next few days, any time he was frightened or suffering, he said, "Mommy, Daddy, come pray with me." That was the beginning of a spiritual journey, with Jordan as my guide. The stronger his faith was, the stronger mine became.
         Eventually Jordan was moved from the Intensive Care Unit to the childrens wing, where the staff was eager to finally meet this "miracle boy." Shortly after his arrival a new therapist pulled me aside. "Mrs. White," the young woman said, "we need to plan your son's treatment. There's a lot of work to be done." Confused, I said, "I don't understand."
         She checked her chart. "Isn't your boy the one with the depressed skull fracture?"
         "Yes, but he just got up and walked to the bathroom. He's been talking nonstop all day and he's building a house with his Legos."
         "That's incredible," the therapist replied and went to see for herself.
         The technician who had done Jordan's initial CAT scan also stopped by. "I felt so sorry for you that night," she told Chan and me. "I never thought you'd get your boy back this well or this quickly. I wasn't sure you'd get him back at all. I've never seen anything like it."
         In fact, the only thing keeping Jordan in the hospital was the intravenous antibiotic treatments--a harrowing twice-daily ordeal that took thirty minutes for the burning, powerful medicine to be completely transfused [28] into Jordan's body. Every time Jordan wailed out in pain he begged, "Pray for me, Mommy. Pray." And I would, as hard as I knew how. Poor Chan. After awhile he couldn't stand to be in the room.
         The ordeal exhausted me too. One night before the next treatment, while Jordan was sleeping, I felt as if I couldn't possibly endure another minute. Yet I knew he was counting on me. Kneeling by Jordan's bed I buried my face in his blanket. "Lord," I quietly pleaded, "all I can do is trust You the way Jordan trusts You. Please protect Jordan from the pain."
         The door opened quietly behind me as I got up and lay down on the bed beside Jordan. I wrapped my arms around him. When the nurse shifted his arm to put the needle in, Jordan started to move. I patted him and whispered, "It's okay. Mommy's here. Mommy's praying." He closed his eyes again.
         Nurses stood by ready to help when the burning and crying started. The room was still dark and hushed. Drip by drip the medicine entered Jordan's vein. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty minutes passed and it was over. Not once did my little boy stir.
         The doctors were able to release Jordan after only ten days in the hospital. There was no sign of infection, and we brought him home to complete his recovery. He is continuing to heal, with only some loss of hearing in his right ear.
         For a time Jordan didn't remember anything about the accident, but then one day while he was playing with a toy truck he suddenly said, "Mommy, I pulled the pin out. That's what made the trailer ramp fall on me." I stopped what I was doing. "It really hurt," he went on, "but then Jesus came."
         I tried to stay calm. "What did Jesus look like, Honey?"
         "He was just ... all white. Then Daddy came and lifted the ramp off my head." The gate had weighed nearly 300 pounds and Chan had said many times that he was amazed he had been able to raise it so easily.
         "Jesus came to see me when we got to the hospital too," Jordan continued. His delicate features set in an expression of deep, unperturbed [29] seriousness. A feeling tingled up my back. "He lifted me up and hugged me and said, 'Jordan, you're going to be okay now.'"
         My mind flew back to that moment in the treatment room waiting for the ambulance to Frye when Jordan mysteriously rose up in bed, as if cradled by an unseen visitor, and spoke. Had he really seen Someone at that instant? Someone only a hurt little child could see? I knelt and wrapped my arms around Jordan, and as I did I could sense another set of arms enfolding us both, arms that are always close when we are in need.

Discussion Questions
         Following are a number of questions, many of 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] hypothermia: a life-threatening condition of reduced body temperature caused by exposure to extreme cold
         [2] seductive: enticing, luring or leading away from what is right
         [3] insidious: crafty, sneaky, subtle
         [4] mute: silent; unable to speak
         [5] dispatcher: someone who sends out emergency vehicles according to a schedule or, in response to a request
         [6] ominous: threatening, like a sign of something bad about to happen
         [7] paramedics: emergency medical workers trained to give emergency care or assist doctors
         [8] relinquish: give up
         [9] surveillance: close observation
         [10] sobriety: moderation in, or not drinking alcohol
         [11] psychiatric: to do with psychiatry, the branch of medicine that deals with the diagnosis, treatment, and prevention of mental and emotional disorders
         [12] melancholy: sad or depressed
         [13] hallucinating: seeing, hearing or feeling things which only exist in the persons imagination
         [14] sibling rivalry: competition between brothers and sisters
         [15] brain aneurysm: a swelling of an artery or vein in the brain
         [16] apparition: a ghostly figure
         [17] enthralled: to be held spellbound; captivated
         [18] crooning: humming or singing softly
         [19] adamantly: stubbornly unyielding
         [20] convalescent: gradual return to health and strength after an operation or illness
         [21]exuberant: full of enthusiasm and joy
         [22] CAT scan: an image produced of the brain using a CAT scanner, a device that produces cross-sectional, x-ray-like views of the brain
         [23] neurosurgeon: a doctor specializing in surgery involving the nervous system
         [24] seizures: sudden attacks or convulsions
         [25] invasive: spreading throughout healthy tissue
         [26] intravenous: a drug or other substance administered into a vein
         [27]antibiotic: a substance, produced by or from certain fungi, bacteria, and other organisms, that can destroy or inhibit the growth of other microorganisms; antibiotics are widely used in the prevention and treatment of infectious diseases
         [28] transfused: fed in through tubes
         [29] unperturbed: calm and serene