As we pulled near I spotted my wife and son in the roadway surrounded by several members of the Sundance ski patrol. As I jumped out of the vehicle and ran toward her, she pointed to the trees above the cabin. I was shocked by what I saw.
The swath of a monster avalanche had blasted down the mountainside, leaving massive trees snapped and broken in its wake like match sticks. I glanced again at the cabin and could now see how the avalanche had ripped through our mountain home. In seconds it had blown out all of the windows and piled tons and tons of snow into our huge living room, collapsing all the floors and completely destroying our dreams. What remained was just a shell. Outside, our carefully selected furniture lay
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smashed to bits in the snow. It was a scene of such shocking devastation, I shall never forget it.
The ski patrol hustled us out of the avalanche zone quickly, as new avalanches threatened. We returned home dazed, stunned, in shock. I must admit, the loss of the cabin really shook us. For months after, I wondered why we had been so unlucky as to lose our beautiful mountain home. Why did God allow such things to happen?
The story could end here. But then you wouldn't know of the miracle that happened that day. As it was, I, myself, didn't discover the miracle until eight months later.
At a business meeting, a colleague of mine asked me a seemingly simple question:
"Did your wife ever tell you that my wife and your wife almost had an accident on the road to your cabin on the day of your avalanche?"
"No," I replied. "What happened?"
"Well my wife and our boys were staying at our Sundance cabin. Because of the heavy snow, they decided to leave and come back home. Before leaving the cabin, one of the boys suggested that they offer a prayer for a safe trip home. They bowed their heads and offered a brief prayer and then started down the narrow road. Your wife, driving up the road, saw my wife and the boys in our Suburban. But when my wife slammed on her brakes, the car wouldn't stop. It skidded down the slick mountain road gathering speed. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Finally, at the last moment before the two vehicles were to crash into each other, she turned the wheel, slamming the front of the Suburban into the snow bank on one side of the road while the rear of the vehicle slammed into the bank on the other side . . . virtually blocking your wife from proceeding up the road. They tried for almost an hour to get the Suburban unstuck and finally had to get help from the ski resort."
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"That's amazing," I said. "My wife never told me."
We chuckled about the "accident" and parted company. Then the force of what he had just revealed hit me.
If it hadn't been for this near "accident," my wife and son would most certainly have been killed in the avalanche!
I've often thought about that "accident" in the roadway. I imagine my wife sitting there in frustration as the Suburban blocked her way to the cabin. I can see my friend's wife at the scene, embarrassed by the whole situation. I see her boys upset and confused and wondering if God really hears prayers.
At the time, everyone viewed the situation as a complete disaster. And yet, with perspective, it was obvious that they had all unknowingly participated in a miracle.
Now I am slower to judge the "disasters" that occur from time to time in my life. Eventually, as more information becomes available, many of them turn out to be miracles in the making. When "accidents" happen, I try to ask myself, "What miracle is God fashioning out of this misfortune?''
Instead of wondering, "Why me, God?" I simply say "Thank you, God."
Then I wait until all of the evidence rolls in.
Robert G. Allen
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You very Good; You very Fast
At the time, I was living in the Bay Area, and my mother had come to visit for a few days. On the last day of her stay, I was preparing to go out for a run. Working in a very negative environment, I found morning runs very beneficial. As I was going out the door, my mother said, "I don't think running is so hotthat famous runner died."
I started to recount what I had read about Jim Fixx, and how running had probably been the contributing factor to his living far longer than most of the other members of his family, but I knew there was absolutely no point.
As I started running on my favorite trail, I found I couldn't shake her statement. I was so discouraged I could barely run. I began thinking, "Why do I bother to run at all? Serious runners probably think I look ridiculous! I might have a heart attack on the trailmy dad had a fatal heart attack at 50 years old, and he was seemingly in better shape than I am."
My mother's statement hovered over me like a giant blanket. My jog slowed to a walk, and I felt extremely defeated. Here I was in my late 40s, still hoping for an encouraging word from my mother, and equally mad at myself for still seeking an approval that would never come.
Just as I was going to turn around at the two-mile mark and head for homefeeling more discouraged than I
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could recall in yearsI saw an elderly Chinese gentleman walking toward me on the opposite side of the trail. I had seen him walking on other mornings; I had always said, "Good morning," and he had always smiled and nodded his head. This particular morning, he came over to my side of the trail and stood in my path, forcing me to stop. I was a little miffed. I had let my mother's comment (coupled with a lifetime of similar comments) ruin my day, and now this man was blocking my way.
I was wearing a T-shirt a friend had sent me from Hawaii for Chinese New Year'sit had three Chinese characters on the front, and a scene of Honolulu's Chinatown on the back. Seeing my shirt in the distance had prompted him to stop me. With limited English he pointed to the letters and excitedly said, "You speak?"
I told him I didn't speak Chinese, but that the shirt was a gift from a friend in Hawaii. I sensed he didn't understand all of what I was saying, and then, very enthusiastically he said, "Every time see you . . . you very good . . . you very fast."
Well I am neither very good nor very fast, but that day I left with an unexplained bounce in my step. I didn't turn from the trail where my previous dark mood had intended, but continued for six more miles, and you know, for that morning I was very good. I was very fast in my spirit and in my heart.
Because of that little boost I continued to run, and I recently finished my fourth Honolulu Marathon. The New York Marathon is my goal for this year. I know I am never going to win a race, but now, when I get any negative feedback, I think of a kind gentleman who really believed, "You very good . . . you very fast."
Kathi M. Curry
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Make a Wish
I'll never forget the day Momma made me go to a birthday party. I was in Mrs. Black's third grade class in Wichita Falls, Texas, and I brought home a slightly peanut-buttery invitation.
"I'm not going," I said. "She's a new girl named Ruth, and Berniece and Pat aren't going. She asked the whole class, all 36 of us."
As Momma studied the handmade invitation, she looked strangely sad. Then she announced, "Well you are going! I'll pick up a present tomorrow."
I couldn't believe it. Momma had never made me go to a party! I was positive I'd just die if I had to go. But no amount of hysterics could sway Momma.
When Saturday arrived, Momma rushed me out of bed and made me wrap the pretty pink pearlized mirrorbrush-and-comb set she'd bought for $2.98.
She drove me over in her yellow and white 1950 Oldsmobile. Ruth answered the door and motioned me to follow her up the steepest, scariest staircase I'd ever seen.
Stepping through the door brought great relief. The hardwood floors gleamed in the sun-filled parlor. Snowwhite doilies covered the backs and arms of well-worn overstuffed furniture.
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The biggest cake I ever saw sat on one table. It was decorated with nine pink candles, a messily printed Happy Birthday Ruthey and what I think were supposed to be rosebuds.
Thirty-six Dixie cups filled with homemade fudge we
re near the cakeeach one with a name on it.
This won't be too awfulonce everyone gets here, I decided.
"Where's your mom?" I asked Ruth.
Looking down at the floor, she said, "Well she's sorta sick."
"Oh. Where's your dad?"
"He's gone."
Then there was a silence, except for a few raspy coughs from behind a closed door. Some 15 minutes passed . . . then 10 more. Suddenly the terrifying realization set in. No one else was coming. How could I get out of here? As I sank into self-pity, I heard muffled sobs. Looking up I saw Ruth's tear-streaked face. All at once my eight-year-old heart was overwhelmed with sympathy for Ruth and filled with rage at my 35 selfish classmates.
Springing to my white-patent leather feet, I proclaimed at the top of my lungs, "Who needs 'em?"
Ruth's startled look changed to excited agreement.
There we weretwo small girls and a triple-decker cake, 36 candy-filled Dixie cups, ice cream, gallons of red Kool-Aid, three dozen party favors, games to play and prizes to win.
We started with the cake. We couldn't find any matches, and Ruthey (she was no longer just plain Ruth) wouldn't disturb her mom, so we just pretended to light them. I sang "Happy Birthday" while Ruthey made a wish and blew out the imaginary flames.
In a flash it was noon. Momma was honking out front. Gathering up all my goodies and thanking Ruthey repeatedly, I dashed to the car. I was bubbling over.
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"I won all the games! Well, really, Ruthey won Pin the Tail on the Donkey, but she said it wasn't fair for the birthday girl to win a prize, so she gave it to me, and we split the party favors 50/50. Momma, she just loved the mirror set. I was the only one thereout of Mrs. Black's whole third-grade class. And I can't wait to tell every one of them what a great party they missed!"
Momma pulled over to the curb, stopped the car and hugged me tight. With tears in her eyes, she said, "I'm so proud of you!"
That was the day I learned that one person could really make a difference. I had made a big difference in Ruthey's ninth birthday, and Momma had made a big difference in my life.
LeAnne Reaves
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The Accident
Our real blessings often appear to us in the shapes of pains, losses and disappointments; but let us have patience, and we soon shall see them in their proper figures.
Joseph Addison
Christmas Eve came on Sunday that year. As a result, the usual Sunday night youth group meeting at the church was going to be a big celebration. The mother of two teenage girls asked me after the morning service if I could find a ride for her girls that night. She was divorced. Her ex-husband had moved away. She hated to drive at night, especially since there was a possibility of freezing rain that night. I promised to get the girls to the meeting.
The girls were seated beside me as we drove to the church that night. We came up over a rise in the road, only to see that a multiple collision had just taken place on a railroad overpass just ahead. Because it had started to freeze and the road was very slick, we were unable to stop and slammed into the back of a car. I turned to see if the girls were okay when ! heard the girl beside me scream, "O-o-oh, Donna!" I leaned forward to see what had happened to the girl seated by the window. This was before
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seat belts were installed in cars. She had been thrown face first through the windshield. When she fell back into the seat, the jagged edge of the broken windshield glass had gouged two deep gashes in her left cheek. Blood was streaming down. It was a horrible sight.
Fortunately, someone in one of the other cars had a first aid kit and applied a compress to Donna's cheek to stop the bleeding. The investigating police officer said the accident was unavoidable and there would be no charges made, but I still felt terrible that a beautiful 16-year-old girl would have to go through life with scars on her face. And it had happened when she was in my care.
At the hospital emergency room, Donna was taken immediately to the doctor to have her face stitched up. It seemed to take a long time. Afraid there were complications, I asked a nurse why the delay. She said the doctor on duty happened to be a plastic surgeon. He took many small time-consuming stitches. This also meant there would be minimal scar tissue. Perhaps God was at work in all this mess after all.
I dreaded visiting Donna in the hospital fearful she would be angry and blame me. Since it was Christmas, the doctors in the hospital tried to send patients home and also postponed elective surgery. As a result, there were not many patients on Donna's floor. I asked a nurse how Donna was doing. The nurse smiled and said she was doing just fine. In fact, she was like a ray of sunshine. Donna seemed happy and kept asking questions about the medical procedures. The nurse confided that with so few patients on the floor, the nurses had time on their hands and made up excuses to go into Donna's room to chat with her!
I told Donna how sorry I was for what had happened. She brushed the apology aside, saying she would cover the scars with pancake make-up. Then she began to excitedly
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explain what the nurses had been doing and why. The nurses stood around the bed smiling. Donna seemed very happy. This was her first time in a hospital and she was intrigued.
Later at school Donna was the center of attention as she described again and again the wreck and what happened in the hospital. Her mother and sister did not blame me for what happened and even went out of their way to thank me for taking care of the girls that night. As for Donna, her face was not disfigured and, surely enough, pancake make-up almost covered the scars. That made me feel better, but I still ached for the pretty girl with the scarred face. A year later, I moved to another city and lost touch with Donna and her family.
Fifteen years later, I was invited back to the church for a series of services. The last night, I noticed that Donna's mother stood in the line of people waiting to tell me goodbye. I shuddered as the memories of the wreck, the blood and the scars cascaded back. When Donna's mother stood before me she had a big smile on her face. She was almost laughing when she asked if I knew what had happened to Donna. No, I did not know what had happened. Well did I remember how interested she was in what the nurses did? Yes, I remembered. Then her mother went on:
"Well Donna decided to be a nurse. She went into training, graduated with honors, got a good job in a hospital, met a young doctor, they fell in love and are happily married and have two beautiful children. She told me to be sure to tell you that the accident was the best thing that ever happened to her!"
Robert J. McMullen Jr.
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From the Mouth of a Small Boy
In 1992 my husband and I went on a Friendship Force exchange to Germany, where we stayed in the homes of three wonderful families. Recently, we were delighted when one of the couples we met in Germany came to visit us at our home in Iowa.
Our friends, Reimund and Toni, live in a city in the industrial Ruhr area of Germany, which suffered heavy bombing during World War II. One evening during their week-long stay with us, my husband, who is a history teacher, invited them to tell us what they remembered about being children in Germany during the war. Reimund proceeded to tell us a story that moved us to tears.
One day not long before the end of the war, Reimund saw two airmen parachuting out of an enemy plane that had been shot down. Like many other curious citizens who had seen the parachutists falling through the afternoon sky, 11-year-old Reimund went to the city's central square to wait for the police to arrive with the prisoners of war. Eventually two policemen arrived with two British prisoners in tow. They would wait there in the city square for a car that would take the British airmen to a prison in a neighboring city where prisoners of war were kept.