Power and Protection!--Part 25
CLTP 35
DFO
True-Life Stories of God's Help in Crisis!
(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 A Rustle of Angels by Marilynn and William Webber.
(Christian Leadership Training Program publications are circulated free of charge on a strictly non-profit basis.)
Table of Contents:
In the Face of Evil
1
Attacked!
3
Angel on the Cowcatcher
5
Snake in the Manger
6
Angels in Goblin Valley
6
Gasoline Leak!
7
A Fruitful Prayer
8
The Warrior Angel
9
Swallow Tale
10
Discussion Questions
12
Glossary for Young Readers
12
In the Face of Evil
--By Nancy Martin
Brooklyn, 10 years ago. It was our prayer group's last meeting before Christmas. Although everyone was in a holiday mood, we found ourselves listening to a monologue on the "danger and evil" encountered in police work.
The problem was an enthusiastic visitor named David. He was a policeman out on Long Island, and boy, could he talk! He told us how his faith helped him in his police work and how God had protected him. At first I found his fiery testimony very stirring. His favorite expression seemed to be, "I always rely on the Name of Jesus," and he quoted Scripture on the authority of the Name of Jesus over all things.
But he went on and on, and he started repeating himself--over and over again. I began to get restless.
I'd never really seen much danger and evil in our neighborhood in good old Brooklyn. I grew up in one of those gray stone houses down on East Eighth Street. As kids, we never thought twice about playing outdoors on hot summer nights. There seemed to be nothing to fear.
In 1961 I married an old schoolmate of mine, and we set up house not too far away, in Midwood. I can't say I felt much fear there either. I didn't have time to! Not with raising six children over the years.
And Christmas, after all, is a time for children. A time for warm feelings and goodwill, not crime and violence. But David seemed unaware of this; he continued to speak with great urgency. Usually our prayer meeting meant so much to me, but that night I felt nothing but relief when it was time to go home.
A couple of days later I had forgotten all about David and his life of danger as I rushed around trying to get everything done in time for the holiday. I had some last-minute shopping to do, but first I dropped some packages off at my cousin's home in New Jersey.
Returning to New York, I steered my faithful old Rambler toward the Abraham and Straus department store. This store was the place for shopping in Brooklyn at that time. I never failed to see someone I knew there. Although I had my misgivings about the materialism in Christmas, I could not help thinking of the look I'd seen on my five-year-old's face when she opened her presents. That thought stayed with me as I drove through the Battery Tunnel and into Brooklyn.
It was 5:30 P.M., a dark, clear night, not too cold for December. I headed for the well-lit, fenced-in parking lot near the Criminal Courthouse and observed all the people bustling by: Christmas shoppers laden with packages, courthouse employees heading to or from their cars. I remember thinking, I'm hungry! The first thing I'll do is stop for a bite to eat and get organized.
I followed another car through the gate and drove behind it toward the booth to pick up my ticket. When the car in front of me braked, I rolled to a stop.
Just then I noticed someone at my window, a tall, lanky young man in a navy-blue parka. He opened my door and said, "Move over." I assumed he was a parking attendant. The lot was very busy, and I was glad to have someone park my car for me; it was one less thing to worry about.
I slid over and began to think again about the things I had to do. The young man drove past the booth and headed in the direction of some empty spots near the exit on the other side of the lot.
It was odd, though--he kept heading toward the exit. Suddenly he stepped hard on the gas and sped right out of the lot onto State Street.
"Hey! Where are you going?" I said. I glanced over at him, and a sudden awareness swept over me in one sickening wave.
I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
"It's like this, lady," he said, ice-cold. "Get down on the floor or I'll kill you."
Get down or I'll kill you!
I felt stunned--as if someone had knocked the wind out of me and I could not catch my breath. This must be a dream, I thought. Holy angels, please help me!
The next thing I knew he was trying to push me onto the floor. His hand was huge and cold. I tried to avoid banging my head on the metal dashboard, but he was very strong and clearly did not care if he hurt me.
Get down or I'll kill you!
My mind began to race. The door handle on my side of the car was broken, so I couldn't escape.
"Here! Take my purse!" I pleaded frantically. "There's money in it. I have six children and they need me!"
"Shut up and get down," he yelled, hitting me with his fist again and again, first in the nose and then in the neck and back of the head. The blows landed hard. I tasted blood and began to see stars, and for a moment I feared I was going to pass out. But I held on, and my head began to clear; that seemed to give me some strength.
State Street heads into Flastbush Avenue, which is a main artery in Brooklyn. Immediately I knew I had to stop him before we got there. I would not be able to escape in the fast-moving traffic without being run over. And I was afraid of where he would probably take me after that. He might head for Prospect Park, a deserted place at night.
My only chance was to make him crash the car. I grabbed for the steering wheel and desperately tried to honk the horn. I was terrified of that pounding fist, but I was even more afraid of what he would do to me if I didn't stop him. Each time I lunged for the wheel, he fought me off, but he had to brake and resteer to avoid hitting the parked cars, and that seemed to slow him down. All the time he kept yelling, "Get down! Get down!"
I tried to move away from him and roll down my window to call for help. But with more room to swing his fist, he hit me so hard it took my breath away. Instinctively I went back to grabbing for the wheel. We struggled back and forth. I was almost sick with exhaustion and was beginning to wonder if I could go on.
Then something remarkable happened. A vivid image flashed into my head, almost as if someone had turned on a TV set. I could see the policeman David, just as he had looked when he spoke in our prayer group two nights earlier. And I could hear his voice loud and clear: "I always rely on the Name of Jesus."
The fiery repetition of those words had almost driven me crazy two nights earlier, but now I grabbed onto them with all my heart. I could feel them lifting me up, giving me strength. I started shouting, "Jesus, Lord, save me! You are my only hope!" I shouted it over and over, louder and louder, as if there was nothing else in the whole world except those powerful words: "Jesus, Lord, save me! You are my only hope!"
I guess my voice reached quite a feverish pitch. I was still yanking at the steering wheel and honking the horn. The man was still braking and fighting me off, but now he began pleading with me: "Lady! Stop it! Stop it!"
Finally I summoned the strength for one more hard yank. The car veered and he hit the brakes--and they locked! The brakes locked! That had never happened before! We always kept the car, and especially the brakes, in good condition. And now, on top of that, the horn stuck!
The man tried stepping on the accelerator several times but the car wouldn't move. He was becoming upset, and I was afraid he might become enraged and really hurt me. But I just kept repeating, "Jesus, Lord, save me!" I was almost screaming now. There was a dreadful pause--but instead of attacking me, the man just sat there. He looked confused. And then somehow I knew--I knew--that I was out of danger. I felt a sense of calm come over me.
"Lady, get out of the car," he said, obviously rattled.
"No, I can't get out; my door is stuck." Then with a boldness I didn't know I had, I said, "You'll have to leave."
He hesitated for one nerve-racking moment. The horn kept blaring. Then he threw open the door and started to get out. I was thinking very clearly now. When he reached back to take my pocketbook, I thought, I haven't bought those presents yet! So I grabbed the strap; it broke, and the contents began spilling onto the ground. After a brief struggle he ran away, dropping my purse in the street.
I sat there for a few seconds, dazed and drained. Finally I got out of the car. ...
There were people all around me now, kind voices and gentle hands. As I calmed down, I began to feel the pain where the man had hit me. He was gone now, disappeared into the night. I did not care where. I thought about him for a moment, and about the look of panic on his face.
After I had recovered a bit, I moved over to the driver's seat and sat down at the wheel. I touched the horn and it stopped! Then I touched the brakes and they unlocked! Somehow I wasn't surprised.
Later two police officers drove me around the neighborhood, but I could not spot the man in the blue parka. For me the worst was over, and I found that I could not be bitter. I had looked into the face of evil and I had learned something from it. David the policeman would have been proud of me. I had relied on the Name of Jesus.
* * *
Attacked!
--By Joe Portale
Our VW van bounced violently over the rutted dirt road. As I peered through the dust-caked windshield my stomach growled. Wiping my brow, I glanced at my watch. We needed to find a spot for lunch, some shade in this desolate country.
I was leading a group of young people, including several nurses, on a mission to the outback of the West African country of Burkina Faso. Our small caravan was on its way to the bush village of Bouroum Bouroum. The absence of any other vehicles on the road made me even more anxious to reach our destination.
I was weary of traveling. We had journeyed thousands of miles, crossing the Sahara, with only tall posts in the sand marking the route. Now we bounced over a washboard trail on the parched African savanna. Dust got everywhere. When the windshield broke on one van, we had to wear thick bandannas around our mouths just to breathe.
Baobab trees studded the horizon, dreary growths that looked as if they had sprouted upside down, gnarled, twisted branches stabbing the sky.
"We'll stop," I said, spotting a large baobab ahead. About as much shade as we'll find. Red dust billowed up as the vans jerked to a halt. The young people stepped out and stretched, and a group set out our lunch. Lidia Giudice, a pretty dark-haired girl, spread old green army blankets on the ground.
While the kids ate, I studied our surroundings. The air seemed oddly still. Cicadas [1] buzzed. I thought I heard a dove coo in the brush. A grasshopper jumped across the blanket, scurrying for cover.
Along our route there had been times when I sensed God watching over us. Once, we had managed to find our way in a blinding sandstorm. At a desert oasis we had arrived just in time to help a Bedouin woman who almost died in childbirth. I felt especially close to God camping in the Sahara beneath the brilliant stars, but now He seemed far away. This place was too hot, too quiet, too empty. I had a strange feeling of unease.
"We've got to get going," I announced. We had many more miles to travel. The kids stood and gathered the blankets. Several of the girls filed behind the tree for a bathroom break. I was growing impatient.
Suddenly a piercing shriek came from behind the baobab. I sprinted over. Maybe some wild animal had attacked. Snakes? Scorpions? This land was full of them.
Then I heard it: A thick buzzing sound filled the air. All at once it came, a dark menacing cloud. Bees. They attacked my ankles and swooped under my collar. They were finding every inch of my exposed skin. I closed my eyes and tried to brush them away. Stay calm. I slapped at my neck. A hot stinger pierced my cheek, and pain shot through my elbow. I flailed my arms frantically.
Bees! Killer bees!
I ran blindly. Anywhere to get away from the deadly, angry roar. I beat the air. The bees kept coming at me, stinging, buzzing. Help! Get me out of here!
I couldn't tell which way to turn. Trapped by the assault, I hardly dared open my eyes. All around me the kids were running and screaming.
I grabbed one girl by the arm and pulled her away from the baobab tree. The bees near her attacked my face. We made a dash up the road, waving our arms, trying to outrun the cloud. My feet pounded the dirt track, away from the terrible noise.
Several fellows carried one girl and laid her on the ground. It was Lidia. Everyone gathered around her. She was covered with writhing insects. They were on her eyelids, in her ears, on her arms and hands. Bees buzzed in her long hair.
"I ... can't ... breathe," she gasped.
"Hang in there," one of our nurses said as she carefully removed dozens of stingers from the girl's body. Several girls helped. Lidia's eyes rolled back and her head fell into the dust of the roadway.
I dropped to my knees. My kids were on the ground, retching [2], all around me. What do I do? Desperately I wanted to pray. Desperately. My thoughts were jumbled; no words came. I felt only fear and loneliness in this place. Forcing myself, I closed my eyes and spoke, "God, this isn't Your fault. Your world is good and beautiful ... "
I couldn't believe my ears. The words were coming automatically. I was thanking God for His whole creation--His whole creation--even in the midst of this disaster. But something told me it was the right prayer. "Thank You, God, for these bees," I prayed. "They are part of Your world. You are gracious and good."
I opened my eyes. The wild buzzing had diminished. We picked stingers out of our skin. Bees still swarmed around our vans as though searching for their hive.
"We've got to get medicine," one of the nurses called. She knew there was some back in the van. She stood up from the dust. "I'll go," she said.
We watched as she staggered back, waving her arms. Darting into the van, she grabbed a medical kit. She ran back to Lidia and gave her a shot of an antihistamine [3]. "I don't think she's going to make it," someone said.
"Thank You, Lord, for Your creation," I continued to pray. "For all of Your creatures. Thank You for life."
One of our drivers covered himself with blankets and ran back to the vans. Opening all the doors so the bees could fly out, he started one van and drove it to us. The van rocked from one side of the road to the other and he jerked the steering wheel to duck the angry bees.
"Thank You, God ... "
We chased the last of the bees out of the van and lowered Lidia's limp form on the backseat while drivers went for the other vehicles. I sat in front to keep an eye on her, and one of the nurses sat next to her, bathing her forehead with a cool, damp cloth. It would be several hours of rough driving before we reached the missionary infirmary [4].
An hour down the road, Lidia stirred. Jerking her arm toward her hair, she mumbled, "Cut ... my ... hair ... off."
"It's okay, Lidia. We've pulled the bees out of your hair."
Her eyes opened. "Where am I?"
"You're in a van on your way to Bouroum Bouroum," I said.
She leaned weakly on one elbow. "I couldn't breathe. I felt my life leaving me. And I thought, No, Lord, that's not fair to my parents. When you began praying, a cool breeze swept over me and I was able to breathe again."
How had she heard me praying when she was unconscious?
After two and a half hours on the road we arrived at the village. We were covered with red, swollen welts. We blurted out our story to the missionaries there.
"You are very fortunate," one of the missionaries told me as others tended to the most seriously injured kids. "Not long ago another foreigner disturbed a hive of bees. He was stung more than forty times and died."
That night I fell into my sleeping bag, exhausted. I kept playing the day over in my mind--how we had survived in this hot, dry, lonely land. Just then I felt thin grains of sand between my toes. The dust, as inescapable as God's mercy.
"Thank You, God," I prayed. "Thank You for the dust, the trees, the sand, the wind, the sun, the water, the bees. Your creation is full of mystery and goodness. But Your mercy is mightiest of all."
* * *
Angel on the Cowcatcher
--By Marilynn and William Webber
William "Bill" Henry was at the throttle of his steam locomotive the Buffalo Flyer. The train had stopped at Port Pennsylvania, and filled its tanks with water. The night express was running at full speed just above Shickshinny where the mining region begins, when the engineer was startled to see a man on the cowcatcher [5]. Bill watched in amazement as the man swung confidently up onto the steam chest. Holding on to the handrail with his left hand, he used his right hand to give the railroad signal, CAUTION--STOP!
Bill called to Henry Sulenk, the fireman: "Hank, it looks like we have a passenger!"
Hank looked out and said, "Probably a bum that got on at Port."
The man stepped onto the running board that led from the front of the engine to the cab, all the while giving a signal, which was now DANGER--STOP!
The engineer watched with fascination. The train was running with a full head of steam. The forward movement of the train created a strong wind, yet this man was walking toward the cab with no difficulty.
It was strange, too, about his clothes. He was dressed in a light gray suit and wore a hat, but the wind did not blow his clothes, and his hat did not move from his head. As he came closer, Bill Henry could see him clearly. The man had a light-brown mustache, but it was his eyes that Bill would never forget--they seemed filled with compassion and wonder.
Now the strange rider changed the sign to read: EMERGENCY!--STOP!
The engineer released the throttle, put on all the brakes, and the Buffalo Flyer ground to a hard stop. Bill Henry whistled for the flagmen. Immediately they went into their emergency procedure of placing flags on the tracks to warn other trains that there was a halted locomotive. One flagman went to the back to place his warning flags. The engineer watched the other flagman hurrying to place his flags in front of the train. Peering into the darkness, Bill saw the flagman stop about 150 feet ahead and signal with his lantern: CAVE-IN!
When the crew rushed ahead, they found a gaping hole where the tracks had been.
Realizing how close they had come to death, the crew hurried back to thank the mysterious night rider. He had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared and was never found.
Bill Henry seldom talked about the mysterious rider on the Buffalo Flyer, but when he did, he always let his listener decide who the man in gray might be. But Bill himself had no doubts. He was certain that the "man" was an angel from God.
* * *
Snake in the Manger
--By Marilynn and William Webber
It has been years since Opal Housley was a girl living on a farm near Inola, Oklahoma. One event from her teen years is still as clear as the day it happened.
Opal's father had taken the wagon to town, leaving his wife and daughter to do the chores. Opal went to the barn to get some straw to make a nest for one of the chickens in the henhouse. She was about to reach into the manger for a handful of straw when a voice said clearly, "Stop! There is a snake in the manger!"
Opal looked around to see who had spoken. No one was there. She was the only person in the barn. She looked in the manger. It was full of straw. She could see nothing else, certainly not a snake.
Opal stepped closer and started to reach into the manger again. "Stop!" the voice commanded. "There is a snake in the manger!" The farm girl froze with her hand in mid-air. Her eyes searched the manger. There was no sign of a snake. She looked around the barn. It was empty. She was alone.
Opal did not know what to think of the voice, but she did know that she needed straw for the nest, and since she could not see a snake in the manger, she decided to get the straw. She reached out the third time. "Stop!" ordered the voice. "Don't touch it. There's a snake in the manger."
"No, there isn't," Opal said out loud, but she stood, looking into the manger. Slowly the straw began to move. First Opal saw the eyes, then the head of the snake.
She ran for the farmhouse and returned with her mother. The snake was still in the manger when they arrived. "It's a poisonous snake!" Opal's mother exclaimed. "It probably came up from the pond. What a close call you had."
Then with the skill that farmer's wives have demonstrated throughout history, Opal's mother quickly killed the snake. Together the two thanked God for the warning that had saved Opal's life.
* * *
Angels in Goblin Valley
--By Marilynn and William Webber
Joyce enjoyed exploring new places with her motor home. On this day she had set out with her mother and her daughter, both named Mary, to see Goblin Valley, Utah. It was a beautiful day without a cloud in the sky.
The road into Goblin Valley was in poor repair. It was like driving on a washboard, and Joyce was concerned because the motor home was continually being jarred. Her mother, reading the map, said, "There is another road on the map. If you'd like to try it, I'm game, but it's up to you."
"Let's go for it," Joyce said. When she turned off, the road was smooth, but it soon became sandy. From time to time they crossed the dry creek beds and Joyce could feel the back of the motor home fishtail [6] a bit but not enough to be concerned about. It appeared to be a good, sandy road.
As they turned a corner next to a rock embankment crossing another dry creek bed, the motor home got stuck in the mud. Joyce was unable to get the motor home to move forward or back. It wouldn't even rock. It was stuck, hopelessly stuck in the mud. They were alone in the middle of nowhere. It was quite possible that no one might travel that way for days. Joyce's mother decided that she would like to see if she could find some help.
Joyce got out and surveyed the problem. At that time Joyce was not a strong Christian, but it occurred to her there was nothing she could do--except pray. So down on their knees they went, mother and daughter, kneeling in the sand, repeating the prayer they knew, the Lord's prayer. As best as they knew how, they committed the situation to the Lord.
It was fewer than ten minutes later when a four-wheel-drive jeep rounded the curve in the road. The driver stopped, got out of his jeep, and asked, "What are you doing out here all by yourself?"
"I'm not alone," Joyce answered. "My daughter is with me, and I know that God is with me. I'm not alone."
"I've been sent here to help you," the stranger explained matter-of-factly.
Joyce told him that her mother was hiking down the road looking for help. "First, we've got to go find your mother," the good Samaritan said. Off he went, and in a few minutes returned with Mary.
The man tied a rope to the back of the motor home, then fastened it to the jeep. "Put your engine in reverse" he instructed. The four-wheel-drive kicked in, the jeep pulled on the rope, and slowly the motor home was freed from the sand. It was not an easy feat, but with his help Joyce was able to turn the motor home around.
Joyce was overjoyed. She wanted to give the stranger something for helping them, but he refused. "At least let me fix you lunch," Joyce offered.
"Okay," the man replied.
Joyce prepared lunch. As they were eating, she had the feeling that she was really entertaining an angel.
After lunch the man said, "You got stuck once on this sandy road. Let me follow you to be sure you will make it back to the main road."
The three women looked at each other and nodded in unison. They had had enough adventures for one day. With the jeep a few feet behind, the motor home started back down the sandy road. Joyce kept watching it in her rearview mirror. As they came to the main road, she leaned out the window to wave goodbye, but the jeep and its driver had disappeared. There had been no side road where the jeep could have turned off. It had been there, close behind Joyce; then it was gone.
This event changed Joyce's life. "If God loves me enough to send me angels to help me," Joyce explains, "then I need to dedicate my life to the Lord. Ever since then I have truly tried to make God number one, and He has directed my life."
* * *
Gasoline Leak!
--By Fred Burris
On a wintry night several years ago I was working the midnight shift at the Husky Oil Company refinery in Cody, Wyoming. A few hours before my shift started, a sub-zero cold front had pushed across the state. In its wake came a howling blizzard.
I glanced at the clock in the refinery lab where I worked: 3:30 A.M., time to pick up the Crude Unit samples. As I slipped into my winter coat, the lab door shot open. A red-faced boiler operator stared at me. Frost covered his eyebrows and icicles hung from his mustache. Fear leaped from his dark eyes.
"There's a leak! A bad leak!" he roared.
We raced out of the building, turning our hard hats towards the teeth of the storm. The driving snow stung my cheeks. The stench of gasoline burned my nose. Ahead of me an explosive geyser shot out of the driveway, dangerously close to the six boilers being heated by raging fires.
"Sound the emergency alarm," I yelled.
I'm standing on the edge of a powder keg, I thought. Any moment the gasoline at my feet could catch fire.
All the workers who could be spared gathered in front of the red-hot boilers. A frozen ridge of gravel had formed a rock-hard dam in front of the drain, and gasoline was backing up. I knew that trying to dig the blockage out with a pick and shovel could cause a spark. "Bring in the fire truck and cover this gasoline with foam," the shift foreman shouted. "The rest of you get brooms and squeegees and start pushing it to the drain."
The fire truck came, but instantly its engine died, choked by the gasoline vapors that flooded the air. Four men brought in a manual foam generator, but it soon froze up, giving us only a sputter of foam. Frantically we pushed waves of gasoline into the drain. Lord, help us, I prayed.
Suddenly I recalled a scene from childhood: a dark night when Pop and I were walking home from his friend Mr. Pike's house. Mr. Pike had just told us a terrifying story of meeting a panther in the nearby swamp. All I could think of was the dark night and the big black cat. The mile of deep forest swallowed us up. Stumbling on a root or a rock, I lost my footing. Then I felt the gentle strength from Pop as he pulled me up, unhurt. "I'm right here," he had said.
Grown now, with three children of my own, I pushed my broom into that sea of gasoline and imagined God holding my hand just as Pop had. I'm right here, He seemed to say.
"All right, God, I trust You," I prayed. My fear lifted.
A few moments later I looked around. The geyser of fuel had halted. "It's stopped!" I shouted.
All eyes shifted to where the fountain had been. Although about 3000 gallons of gasoline still flooded the driveway, I felt strengthened by a divine hand. A new eagerness came upon all of us.
An hour later the rest of the menacing fuel had been removed. A thin blanket of foam covered the driveway. The gasoline in the drain system would be safely collected by the refinery's separator and returned to the crude storage tank.
With lungs burning from the cold and the rank fumes, we drifted to the change house. We tossed our shoes and clothing into a shower stall and soaked them with cold water. Deeply shaken, we washed, dressed and returned to our jobs. The next morning the safety engineers and fire experts were baffled. "The place should have exploded and burned," they said. I knew why it hadn't.
* * *
A Fruitful Prayer
--By Sherry Jo Blum
With four young children, one income, and bills piling up, the strain had finally taken its toll on my spirits. It had been an especially long summer, with the children getting chicken pox--exactly one week apart.
Being housebound and missing my regular women's Bible study and fellowship had only deepened the rut I found myself in.
Then my two oldest children repeated their question of the day before. Could I make an apple pie and put some pretty apples in a jar like their friend's mother? This time I couldn't hold back the tears.
"Even though Mommy cans lots of vegetables from our garden," I explained, "it takes money to buy a bushel of apples. We don't have extra money."
The truth was we didn't have even enough money to buy bruised apples that had fallen from the trees. Wrapping their arms around me, Rebecca, Joshua, Rachel, and Elizabeth said, "Don't cry, Mommy, we'll buy the apples!" They ran upstairs, returning with their piggy banks.
Giggling in unison, they began to vigorously shake the few coveted coins from their banks. I couldn't have been prouder of them for their unselfish spirit. But I had to tell them the truth: a bushel of apples costs more than all their change combined.
My husband, Robert, and I have always taught our children to pray and believe that God will answer. So when Rebecca said, "Let's ask God for the apple money, Mommy," we knelt on the kitchen floor and asked God exactly that.
That afternoon, home from his job as a cook in a hospital, my husband said almost off-handedly that a truck loaded with crates of apples had hit a bump in the road.
"One of the crates must have broken open," Robert continued. "I kept spotting apples on the side of the road for quite a stretch." My spirits soared.
"They're our apples from God!" I said. Robert didn't know what I was talking about.
Grabbing an empty laundry basket, I hurriedly explained what had happened that morning. Loading the children in the car, we went to collect our answered prayer. About three miles from our house, we saw apples by the side of the road for a hundred yards.
Then we saw something else. A man, collecting wood, was driving a horse-drawn cart directly in the path of the apples. I knew what was going to happen--the horse would stop and munch our apples or the wheels of the cart would smash them. But amazingly, the horse didn't even stop to sniff the apples!
"They'll be too bruised from falling off the truck," Robert kept saying. "And now that the horse and cart have trampled them, I don't hold much hope."
But when we started picking up the apples, they weren't squashed. Because they had landed in the grass, not on the shoulder of the road, not one apple had a single bruise or blemish.
With squeals of delight, the children and Robert and I gathered not just a bushel but one-and-a-half bushels of perfect MacIntosh apples. I baked four pies and canned many jars of apples that we enjoyed for months afterwards.
Eleven years later, the memory still is fresh. And every time I see or smell an apple, it's a reminder that God knows and honors even the simplest requests.
* * *
The Warrior Angel
--By Marilynn and William Webber
Joyce Story is a frail woman, weighing only eighty-five pounds. She is a small five-foot-one. Severely handicapped with rheumatoid arthritis, she walks with a noticeable limp.
She was the treasurer of her Sunday school class, and every Tuesday morning it was her routine to go to the Security Pacific Bank on the corner of Van Buren and Arlington in Riverside, California, to deposit the offering from the class. It was already hot at ten o'clock one day in June 1985, as she went with her niece to the bank. The deposit was quickly made.
As Joyce and her niece left the bank they heard a woman scream, "Please don't! No! No! Help, help!"
There in the bank parking lot was a huge man, well over six feet tall, weighing about 250 pounds, wearing a ski mask. He was beating the shouting woman as he tried to steal her money bag. She had the handle of the bag wrapped around her arm, and the more the mugger pulled, the tighter it became. Then with a mighty blow he knocked the woman to the ground.
As tiny Joyce saw this something welled up deep within her spirit. There were many emotions, but the one she remembers feeling the most was grief--not just grief for the victim but grief for the assailant. Grief that one person would treat another so brutally.
In a moment the grief was replaced by an urgent feeling that God would have her take action. A small, handicapped woman confronting a large and violent criminal? Obediently, she limped toward the mugger. Raising a gnarled index finger and pointing at him, Joyce said, "No! In the Name of Jesus, no!"
Joyce's niece, La Shell, watched fearfully at the strange encounter. Intent on stealing the money bag, the man continued to beat his victim while she was on the ground. "No! In the Name of Jesus, no!" As she advanced, the handicapped woman became aware of a strong presence with her.
Knowing she wasn't alone, all fear left her.
The man in the ski mask paused in his assault of the woman on the ground. He looked contemptuously at little Joyce, but then he looked up, over her head. He became startled, his eyes filled with terror. He began to back up as if in shock, saying, "Oh, oh, oh!" Then he turned and ran for his life.
What did he see? Joyce has no doubt. She knows she would not frighten anyone, but she was aware of an angel behind her. From the way the mugger looked up, the warrior angel must have been at least nine feet tall.
Joyce helped the woman get up from the pavement and into the bank for first aid. The police were called and responded quickly. The officer making the report was skeptical about the angel. He did recognize the description of the mugger, however. The man had assaulted several people at different banks in the area, and the police said that he was not afraid of anyone--certainly not of a handicapped little woman. Joyce says, "There is no human explanation why this mugger was frightened of me. He could have snapped me like a pretzel. Praise the Lord, he was frightened of my angel."
* * *
Swallow Tale
--By Lisa Estes
They had come again--the barn swallows. As I sat on our front porch, I viewed them with mixed emotions.
My husband, Wayne, and I had been trying for several years to conceive a child, but it seemed not to be possible. So that sunny morning in late April, I tried to push back my own disappointment and sadness while watching the barn swallows prepare for their new arrivals.
Traditional southern touches add character to our simple country home. White columns support the roof of a wrap-around front porch. With its rockers and swing, our porch is a favorite gathering spot. It is also where I often retreat for my quiet time.
The two barn swallows must have felt comfortable on our porch as well because they chose to nest under the roof on one of the columns. I had no idea they would build in the midst of so much activity. Nevertheless, this was the third year they had chosen the same column.
Fascinated by the swallows' dedication to their task, I watched as they diligently collected materials for their nest. They flew back and forth, their white undersides and russet-red throat patches in beautiful contrast to their dark-blue backs. They had long deeply-forked tails, and appeared to glide effortlessly as they returned home carrying grass and mud in their curved beaks. When the mud-pellet nest was finished, it was lined mostly with white feathers--ready for eggs.
In previous years the mother swallow had laid her eggs by the first week or so of May. Then the male and female took turns sitting on the eggs. After an incubation period of about two weeks, the eggs hatched. After another two to three weeks, when all the baby swallows had passed flying lessons, our visiting family flew away.
This new mother was right on schedule. Around May ninth she laid five whitish, slightly speckled eggs. Everything seemed fine. Two weeks passed, then three. But by the fourth week when the eggs had not hatched, I knew something was wrong. Every morning I grabbed a small spindleback chair from the den and hurried outside. I set the chair down, climbed on it and peered into the birds' home.
Anticipation gave way to worry. Four weeks passed, still without baby birds. By this time "Mom" barn swallow and I had started to form a relationship. As I checked on her every morning, instead of flying away, she moved over and let me look at the birds-to-be.
One morning as she perched on the side of her nest, her eyes appeared to search mine. She glanced at her eggs and then back at me. I could almost feel her asking, "What is wrong with my babies? What can I do?" I tried to offer her words of encouragement, but I was having my own doubts. A month was a long time for those eggs to go unhatched.
Five weeks passed. As a county extension agent Wayne answers questions pertaining to wildlife, so I asked him for help in getting the eggs to hatch. Some help! He was raised on a farm, so he accepts the plight of nature better than I do. "Things like this happen sometimes," he said sympathetically. "It's just a part of life. The eggs won't hatch. It wasn't meant to be."
Part of life. Wasn't meant to be. I would not accept those answers. I don't think I would have become so upset if month after month my life had not been filled with temperature charts, thermometers, medications and doctors' appointments. I was nearing 28 and was in good health; so was Wayne, who was 34. Why had nothing worked? Was my inability to conceive also a part of life to be accepted?
The following week Wayne and I attended a banquet. For entertainment, a choral group from one of the local schools performed several selections. As they began singing "His Eye Is on the Sparrow," I had to fight back the tears that were burning my eyes. Trusting that God did have His eye on the sparrows, the barn swallows and certainly me, I left the banquet with a gentle reassurance that the eggs would hatch and my prayers for a child would be answered.
July arrived. The eggs had been in the nest for more than seven weeks. All the while Mom, with her small delicate body, had been keeping them warm. I continued checking on the eggs and talking with Mom, telling her to remain patient a while longer. Now my visits were three or four times a day, if not more. Dad barn swallow occasionally sat close by.
I called a state wildlife biologist for information. He confirmed what Wayne had said. He suggested tearing the nest down to make the birds leave. I was flabbergasted, but I thanked him and hung up.
My spirits were crushed. I could not tear down the nest. When Wayne returned from work I told him about my conversation. Wayne assured me that he felt Mom barn swallow would instinctively know when it was time to give up and leave. My spirits lifted. As long as Mom hadn't given up, why should I?
Eight weeks passed. Still no baby birds. Dad barn swallow decided it was time to go. Mom was alone. One day I sensed Mom barn swallow was ready to leave too. I was so scared that if she flew away she would carry with her all the hope I had of ever becoming a mother. "Lord, please make her stay," I prayed. During the ninth week Mom did fly away.
I continued to spend a lot of time by the nest, watching and waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of her forked tail gracing the sky. I missed my friend. I couldn't bear the thought of the nest coming down, especially since it still held the eggs. "I'll give her credit," Wayne said. "She stayed with her eggs a lot longer than most birds would have." I thought about Wayne's words. Why had she stayed so long? And why there on my porch, where I had to see? If this were just a part of life, it was bad timing.
A couple of days passed. I made yet another trip to the window to look out at the lonely nest. But ... could it be? I held my breath as I blinked and looked again. She had come home! I ran out to greet her, only to find she was not alone. Dad was with her! She had not deserted her babies after all.
July seventeenth dawned bright and sunny. I grabbed my chair and headed out the front door, wondering how many times I had carried that chair to the nest. The next day would be my birthday, and the only gift I wanted was baby barn swallows. I peeked into the mud-pellet nest, and I gasped.
The eggs were gone. In their place were five baby barn swallows! Their bulging eyes were closed and their tiny pale bodies held only a few sparse feathers. But to me they were beautiful. Tears streamed down my face, and I trembled so I could hardly get down from my chair. The only words I could utter were, "They're here! Our babies are here!"
Approximately 75 days after Mom barn swallow had first laid her eggs she became a mother. This was 60 days longer than the normal incubation period. I called the wildlife biologist for an explanation. He was puzzled. "Maybe she laid a whole new clutch," he said. But I knew that wasn't so: Every day I had checked the markings and position of each egg in the nest.
Whatever happened, I don't question. I think it was a miracle. I firmly believe God could have hatched those eggs in 15 days or even one day if He chose, but that would not have taught me to trust Him and His timing for my life.
The barn swallows have not built a nest on our porch since. But every spring one swallow flies in, perches on the same column and calls to me, remaining until I acknowledge its presence by going to the window. I like to think this barn swallow is Mom or one of the babies I prayed for so earnestly coming back to stay in touch.
I whisper a thank-You as I turn to hug my little "sparrows." Yes, God has since blessed Wayne and me with two wonderful sons, all on His timetable. As I watch the barn swallow spread its wings to take flight, I pray its travels will lead this way again. But whatever the future brings, one thing is certain: His eye is always on the barn swallow. And on me.
* * *
Discussion Questions
Following are a number of questions, some 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 cicadas: large insects that live in hot countries and make loud, high-pitched droning sounds
2 retching: when your stomach reacts and moves in an uncontrolled way as if you are vomiting
3 antihistamine: a drug used to treat illnesses that are caused by allergies (in this case, to bee stings)
4 infirmary: small medical clinic
5 cowcatcher: a device fixed in front of a locomotive engine, to remove straying cattle or other obstructions from the rails in front of a train
6 fishtail: when a moving vehicle's rear end swerves from side to side out of control
[End]