Just For One

Just For One

One night when I was sailing home, miles out into the sea,

A dreadful storm began to rise and from the north it blew.

My little ship was tossed about. A star could not be found;

A guiding light I knew I’d need if I were to sail through.

I fought the sea alone that night; I challenged every wave.

But faith was weak from yonder gale and hope lost from the thunder.

My ship then wedged into the rocks, and ground upon the sand.

My hull was breached, and now the waves would beat my ship asunder.

“Help me! Please!” I shouted out as rain beat o’er my face.

A lonely sailor lost at sea was all that I would be.

And then a ship, a mighty ship, out from the darkness hailed.

“Hold fast, dear mate! We’ll pull you free!” The sailors yelled to me.

They tossed a cable o’er my deck, and strained to pull me free;

Then put their faces into the wind and set their sail toward land.

My little ship pulled from the rocks, and off the sinking sand;

Then safely in behind their ship, my life was in their hands.

They fought the billows and the waves; their brave hearts failed them not.

The angry waves could not prevail; their faith did never sway.

We journeyed on throughout the night; the storm could not deter.

Then finally the morning sun appeared and drove the storm away.

I often think about that night and of that mighty ship

That braved the gale and fought the waves all the nighttime long.

I think about the sailors who did risk their lives that night.

To save my soul they braved harm’s way: they did it just for one.

Introduction

Like many Christians, I have always thought that I believed in miracles. After all, I was raised in a Christian family and attended Sunday School all my life. From my youth up I had learned about the miracles Jesus performed. I thought that I believed in an all-powerful God. Why then was I so astonished when I came face to face with a real miracle and an angel who helped me to understand the very heart of God?

Matthew

Matthew was a happy little five-year-old boy. Everyone who knew him recognized that there was something very special about him. Not that he was the oldest of three siblings or intellectually gifted, but he possessed an amazing conscience for God. At times he would say things that conveyed wisdom far beyond his years.

On one occasion, I saw him just after he had come home from school. One eye was badly bruised by some bully who had followed him from school. He did not seem angry or scared, nor did he seem concerned that this event might recur. As was his way, he vanished out to the back yard to play.

A few weeks later, I asked him what had happened to the “bully” who had hurt him. Matthew stared at me for a moment, puzzled. Then, like sunlight bursting out from a distant mountain range, understanding dawned on his face.

“Oh, him!” Matthew grinned. “I made him my friend.”

I was speechless. How is it, I wondered, that this kind of childlike simplicity so often escapes us?

Knowing the nature of this child, the incident I am about to recount should not surprise you as it did me. It is true in every detail.

For all of Matthew’s admirable qualities, he had one heartbreaking imperfection. His hands were completely covered in warts, dozens and dozens of them. Like a terrible plague they infected every inch of his hands. So complete was his plight that the warts were even under his nails, which he was in danger of losing.

He never complained nor cried about them. He simply accepted his predicament. His mother, however, was devastated. She tried in vain to halt the spread of the awful disease. She consulted doctors and tried using a variety of wart removers. Nevertheless, it seemed that the harder she tried the more the warts flourished.

One night I watched as Matthew, dressed in his pajamas, went into the kitchen to have his hands treated. It was a dreadful time-consuming job for his mother. Normally after she finished treating him, his hands were completely covered in bandages.

But on this particular night, his mother was weary from an unusually difficult day. When he approached her, she snapped at him, “Why don’t you ask Jesus to heal you?”

I will never forget the look on his face. His smile faded, and he pressed his hands together, suddenly ashamed. He lowered his head and turned obediently toward his bedroom. I hated to see him hurting, but what could I do?

The next day as I spoke with Matthew’s mother, he approached us, his eyes aglow, and held out his hands out for inspection. “Look, Mommy,” he beamed, “Jesus healed my hands!”

My breath suddenly left me, as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. I pulled his hands close to me and turned them over and over again. The warts were gone - all of them! Not a single wart remained on either hand, nor were there any scars. Even the nails were completely normal!

Even now, years later, my eyes fill with tears when I think about that day. Weren’t there any wars being fought? What about the millions of people devastated by starvation? Was there not a universe to control? Were there not families in crisis all over the world? Were not serious diseases plaguing the world that very night?

When you consider the chaos and calamity, the billions of voices in a world filled with turmoil, how is it that God listened to the inconsequential prayer of a little child suffering the minor indignity of warts? Does it not seem that God would have many more important things to do?

The Angel

Years later, on an ordinary late summer evening, something incredible happened to me. I can only describe it as the beginning of a journey, a journey that would ultimately bring me to the very heart of God.

I remember every detail about that night. A gentle breeze seemed to waltz across the rich green meadow that spread out in front of my home. The sky draped as a backdrop for the crimson harvest sun like a painting in a majestic golden frame embellished by great brush strokes from a master’s hand. I even remember the song of the crickets serenading the approach of nighttime.

As dusk fell, I lounged on the porch swing, soaking up the beauty that surrounded me. It was just a typical evening in the rolling Dakota plains.

It was supposed to get cold that night, so I remember throwing an extra log on the fire before I retired for the night. I have always relished the sound of a crackling fire and the smell of burning oak from a freshly turned fire. Somehow, I found it relaxing, encouraging me to let go of the stress of the day. For the same reason, I have always enjoyed a gentle nighttime rain, or the soft rumble of a distant train alone in the night. Just a few of the simple pleasures of country living.

The next thing I remember was a sudden tap on the shoulder. I opened my eyes and found an angel standing beside my bed. Remarkable as it may seem, I was completely without fear or surprise, as if I had expected this encounter.

“Come with me,” he said, and turned to leave the room. I rose, rubbing my eyes, and followed him toward the door. As I stepped through the door, instead of entering the hall as I had expected, I found myself standing in a room guarded by two large angels. The angels towered above me, each wielding a fiery sword. I stopped abruptly, intimidated, while my angel continued on into the room behind them.

“Fear not,” the angel said to me. “They are servants of the Most High. They shall not harm you.”

I knew that, I think. Even so, I stepped gingerly between them into the next room. Through the haze all about me, I knew the room was beautiful. The walls glinted solid gold. The floor sparkled with the light of millions of diamonds. Yet my attention was drawn to the center of the room, where there stood at the center of the room the only piece of furniture in the room. It was a stand made of solid silver, and upon it lay a very sizeable ancient book.

The book caught my complete attention. It appeared completely out of place in such an exquisite chamber as it showed evidence of years of wear on its cover and page edges. Obviously its owner used it often.

The angel said nothing as he stood beside the book gazing at its cover.

I moved closer, trying to see what he was seeing. “What is this?”

“It is the Book of Remembrance.” The angel turned to look at me. “It is a precious treasure of the Most High.”

“What is it about?”

“Precious thing! Thing of indescribable value to the LORD!”

I looked around the room again and realized that I must be deep in God’s dwelling. This well-guarded room was certainly a place where few beings had ever been and most likely none of God’s enemies had ever seen it.

I glanced up at him meekly. “Can I see what is written in it?” I half expected to be rebuked for the insult, but why else would the angel have brought me here?

Instead, the angel nodded. “You, oh son of man, may examine the contents of this book, though no angel may touch its pages.”

Suddenly I was uncertain. Did I really want to touch something so sacred? What would I find within its cover? The angel gave it so much respect, I felt inadequate.

My curiosity won out. Gingerly, I touched the cover, tracing the edge before slipping my finger under the cover to lift it carefully. The top page was blank. I slid my finger under the blank page and gently turned it over. And then I turned the next and the next. They were all blank! How could the book be so worn if it were completely empty? How could an empty book be of any value?

Puzzled, I turned again to the angel. “I don’t understand. The book is empty.”

“The book is not empty. It is filled with the pain and suffering of God’s people.”

Now I was really confused. I continued to flip through the empty pages. What did the angel mean? Was I spiritually blind?

Then something caught my eye. I bent over the book to examine the page. Was that a water stain? I flipped through the pages again. How had I missed it?

Almost as if he had read my mind, the angel explained, “What you see are the tears of the saints of the Most High. Each one has touched God’s heart. He saved them and placed them in this Book of Remembrance to be treasured forever.”

“But why in a book?” I wondered aloud.

“Because tears are the language of God, a language that only He can understand.”

My heart felt pinched within me as it occurred to me how large was the size of the book. So many tears, I thought. So much pain.

“So why can’t an angel touch it?” I asked.

“We angels do not possess hearts such as yours. We can see God, but we cannot join with Him like you can. You are a unique being. Your heart can reach out and touch the heart of the Most High. You can join with Him -- join at the heart.”

Again I was at a loss for words. I finally understood the deep reverence the angels paid to this place. It was an intimate place, containing God’s memories of the most intimate moments He spent with His people.

“Come with me,” the angel beckoned. “I will show you other treasures kept by the Most High.”

As he turned, I became aware of another door I had not seen at first. Two more large angels guarded it, each armed with a sword. My angel seemed to pay them no heed as he glided through the door into the next room. I, however, moved more cautiously. The room was slightly larger than the first, but this one had about a dozen silver stands positioned in a perfect row down the center.

The angel moved toward the first stand and stood gazing at it solemnly. I joined him, wondering what mysteries this place would reveal. On the silver stand lay a single sheet of slightly water crinkled paper. It was a watercolor picture: two sets of small handprints and one set of large handprints, each in a different color. Along the bottom was neatly printed: We love and miss you Daddy.

“What is this?”

“It was made by a daughter of the Most High. She had two small children, Tommy Jr. and April. Her name was Judith . . .”

Judith

Judith and her husband, Tom, had been missionaries to Korea until the year before. At that time, they came to the States for a sabbatical from their work. They had only been back a few weeks when Tom was killed in a terrible accident.

Judith and her children never seemed to get over their loss. A year later, they still mourned. Judith was not able to recover like so many people do after experiencing the death of a loved one. Introversion and a tear-stained face had now replaced her outgoing nature and perpetual smile.

Everyone who knew her found it difficult to see her in this condition. She understood that everyone meant well and just wanted to help, but Judith wanted only to be left alone -- left to her sorrow. It would have been easy for her friends to judge her for hanging onto her pain, but they couldn’t. They couldn’t because they all knew how deeply the two had loved each other, as though their marriage had literally been made in heaven.

On this day, Judith stood by the jet-walk at the airport preparing to board. Several well-meaning friends in Korea had purchased tickets for her and her children to visit them. It was typical of Judith’s friends -- it seemed that everyone Judith and Tom had touched came to love them deeply.

Judith’s mother, Fran, had accompanied them to the airport to see them off. “Try and have a good time,” she admonished gently.

Tears welled up in Judith’s eyes. The last time Judith had made this trip, she was with Tom. The memories were still all too fresh in her mind.

Judith burst into tears, and Fran pulled her close. “Mom, I just want to die. Why couldn’t God have taken me, too?”

Fran hugged Judith tightly. “God’s wisdom is far above ours, honey. I can’t explain why you have to suffer, but I do know that God will lead you through this difficult time.”

“Last call for boarding,” a voice sounded behind them.

“You’d better go.” Fran took Judith’s arm and guided her toward the jet-walk.

With April on one side and Tommy Jr. on the other, Judith mouthed a silent I love you to her mother, then turned and headed toward the airplane. On the airplane, she sat with a child on either side. On her lap, she cradled a watercolor painting the three of them had created together just before they left, a tribute to the man who had meant everything to them.

She watched out the window as the jet charged down the runway and lifted its huge wings like great arms reaching for the sky. The stewardess was busy taking drink orders nearby and didn’t notice the single tear slowly moving down Judith’s face. Neither did the businessman reading a newspaper in the seat behind her. No one noticed it except for the angel who stood close behind her.

As the tear dropped from her face, Judith whispered, “Take us home, dear God. Home to You and to Tom.” The tear never hit the floor. It was caught up in her angel’s waiting hand.

The angel lifted his wings and rose up through the ceiling of the jet. He streaked up through the atmosphere, outward into space. He journeyed on to that place where time and distance had no meaning, through heaven’s gates to the Throne of God.

He landed on his knees, lowered his head, and held forth his hand. In his palm glittered a single teardrop.

“I have heard Judith’s prayer,” the Most High announced. “That is why you have come. I have felt the pain in her heart as though it were Mine, and I have tried to comfort her with My Spirit.”

The Most High reached out to open an ancient book, one that contained only clear white pages. As if handling a valuable and delicate treasure, He plucked the tear from the angel’s hand. Ever so gently, He placed the teardrop at the center of one page.

Unseen by the angels surrounding Him, a single tear trickled down His face as well. He lovingly caressed the water-stained page. “I have heard you, my child. An answer is on its way.”

God turned to His servant, the archangel Michael. “Go now! Bring Judith and her children to Me. Bring them home.”

A deep sleep from the Spirit of God enveloped Judith and her children. They were unaware that the jet had suddenly and inexplicably veered off course, unaware that they were flying over Russia, unaware that they had been mistaken for an American spy plane. A Russian jet fighter fired its missile, and a ball of flames consumed the jet -- Korean Airlines Flight 007.

Judith opened her eyes. She was no longer on the airplane. She glanced down to each side. Her children were still there beside her, but their eyes were focused ahead of them. She looked up to see her husband, Tom, standing before the Throne of God.

I don’t know whether I had seen a vision or not, but I had watched this story unfold as if I had been standing right there. I blinked twice and looked around. I was still in the treasure room, tears blinding my eyes.

I knew the angel was still there with me. “I remember hearing about that flight. God did that?”

“Yes, God did that. Just for Judith!”

George

I looked at the next silver stand and noticed a single broken boat oar. I looked up at the angel. “Another story?”

“This oar belonged to a man named George.”

Recently retired, George and his wife, Mary, lived in Springfield, Missouri. They were looking forward to a quieter, slower lifestyle, now that their children were gone starting families of their own. Having just recently sold his hardware store, George had plenty of time on his hands, so he was about to do something he had always longed to do: deep sea fishing.

George and Mary carefully planned their trip. George chartered a boat and rented gear while Mary relaxed on the beach. For Mary, the day would be uneventful. She would enjoy the sun, and surely George would be home before nightfall.

But George’s day was much more significant. He spent the morning getting his “sea legs” and didn’t have so much as a nibble. By early afternoon, he was quite bored and made his way to the front of the boat just to escape the others. The lack of activity was causing the rest of the group to turn to shameful alcohol consumption, not the type of behavior in which he cared to indulge.

Without warning, an electrical short in the engine compartment ignited a small pool of gas from a leaky hose. A moment later, the ship exploded.

George, being the farthest from the blast, was thrown clear of the burning wreckage. The others aboard the small craft were not as fortunate. He struggled to swim to the surface, unable to recall how he got there or what had happened. As his head cleared from the initial shock, he found himself afloat in the Gulf of Mexico, some twenty miles off the coast. All that had survived the catastrophe was a single broken oar floating near him.

I should have been wearing a lifevest, he berated himself as he dog-paddled toward the floating oar. It wasn’t enough to keep him afloat, but it helped. He would have to continue stroking if he were to stay above the water.

He had no idea where he was or whether the current would eventually bring him back to shore. In truth, he was drifting slowly further and further into the Gulf. His only hope was that he would be missed and a search party would find him.

When George and the fishing boat failed to return to port, a search was initiated. Darkness fell across the coast as the local officials called the other ports to find out whether the boat had come in elsewhere. Mary called their little church back home, and a prayer chain was quickly formed.

By morning, George had been in the water for fifteen hours. All through the next day, he floated and prayed and drifted further out into the Gulf. Day turned into night again. George paddled and prayed. He was so tired and cold. Loneliness and despair overwhelmed him. He stared up into the starry night and cried. He knew fatigue meant his certain death, so he thought of his wife and children to renew his strength, give him the will to keep hanging on.

“My Lord!” George shouted with all his being. “I’ve served You all my life . . . and I’ll serve You in my death if it’s Your will. Please, Lord! Help me!”

A tear dropped from his dehydrated eyes, but it never touched the water. Instead it fell into the waiting hands of his angel, who streaked up through the sky to stand before the Most High.

God had heard George’s heartfelt prayer. He was a faithful and trusted servant who had served God all his life.

“You’ve never asked anything of Me, George. At least, not nearly as much as you’ve given Me in your unwavering faith in Me.”

God gently dropped the tear into His Book of Remembrance, then addressed His servant Michael. “Go now! Take George back to those who love him so.”

Without a word, Michael darted away.

George continued to float throughout the next night, further into the Gulf. He was unaware of the angel who suddenly appeared over the middle of the Gulf of Mexico and began to spin. A waterspout whirled up into the sky. The temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees, and the barometric pressure began to change. Within the hour, a storm was brewing over three hundred miles from where George was floating.

By morning on the second day, a terrible storm raged over the Gulf. By noon, it had been upgraded to a tropical storm, and by nightfall, it was a full-blown hurricane. Moving slowly at first, the storm soon picked up speed, heading for the coast somewhere near the Mississippi and Texas coastline.

Then something miraculous happened. The effect of the hurricane began to change the water currents in the Gulf. George slowly began to drift toward the Florida panhandle, toward the shrimp-rich waters filled with shrimp trawlers.

He was only vaguely aware of the fisherman who found him. He awoke in the hospital, enveloped in the arms of his wife of forty years. He heard the news on the radio of the hurricane that was hammering the coast of Texas, but its significance did not occur to him. He was with the people he loved and missed. And he knew it had to be a miracle from God that had brought him back home.

Once again, I found myself moved to tears, incredulous at what God had done. “God did all that just for an old man named George? He wasn’t even a famous preacher, just a retired old man!”

“God did that for one of His precious children who touched His heart,” the angel corrected. “He did it just for George.”

Elizabeth

I turned to look at the next stand. On it lay a single purple ribbon tied in a bow: a hairpiece for a little girl. Without taking my eyes off the ribbon, I was mesmerized by the voice of the angel behind me.

“Her name was Elizabeth...”

Beth, as her mother so affectionately called her, was a bouncing little girl of three. Her laughing eyes and bubbly giggle never failed to charm the frowns off her parents’ faces. She was the light that could brighten even the darkest night. Her mother, Sandy, would sometimes just stand on the porch and watch her little girl dance among the wild flowers that lay as a gentle carpet just outside their country home.

Though brought up in a Christian home, Sandy had drifted away from God and didn’t attend church services with her husband, Steve. So every Sunday morning, Grandma stopped by to take her little granddaughter to Sunday School.

One night, as Beth lay in her little bed looking out her bedroom window at the starry sky, she thought about what she had heard that morning in Sunday School: the good shepherd finds the lost sheep.

It stuck in her mind because of what had happened earlier that night. A man in uniform had come to the door and told Mommy that Daddy was lost. She didn’t know what war was or why her daddy had to go there. She only knew that it made Mommy very sad. When Mommy had heard the news, she fell to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Little Beth crawled out of bed and knelt beside her bed. She folded her hands like she had been taught and looked up at the stars, the place where she understood God lived.

“I don’t want my daddy to be gone forever,” she whispered in a determined little voice, her eyes closed tightly. “Jesus, my daddy is lost. Please bring him home.”

She opened her eyes and saw a single star fall from the dark night sky. “Please send him a star, God. Please.”

A single powerful angel stood over the little girl and marveled at her simple prayer. His broad sword hung at his side and his massive arms lay crossed on his chest. He couldn’t understand the pain in her heart, but he knew the hurt deep within her soul was crying out to God, his Lord and King.

He watched as the single tear dripped from her cherubic face. Quickly, he reached over and caught it on the tip of his finger. As he spread his two great wings to lift himself toward heaven, an answer was already being sent.

Even before Beth’s angel reached heaven’s gates, another angel bolted away from the throne of God. He darted down to an area in Southeast Asia, the China Sea. There a mighty storm was pounding the sea as it drifted slowly down the coastal waters of North Vietnam. The angel swooped down around the storm and began to spin around it. Faster and faster the angel went until the storm’s direction began to change. Before long, the storm was heading inland, across the DMZ.

Captain David Thornton had been sent into North Vietnam to find a missing aircraft. After searching in vain for several hours, he turned his Sea King helicopter around and to head back to South Vietnam.

But something strange happened. The storm over the China Sea suddenly changed direction and headed inland. He tried to skirt around it, but its speed amazed him. Just as he was about to pull ahead of it, his helicopter began to lose power, as if his fuel line had come lose and was leaking fuel. He had no other alternative. He had to land the helicopter and fix the line before he could continue.

But landing in the thick forest below would be risky. He had no choice but to turn on his spotlight and search for a place to land.

Steve was listed as MIA -- missing in action. His helicopter had been shot down, but he had been thrown free of the crash, as if a great hand had reached down and plucked him out. For an entire month, he survived by eating bugs, worms, lizards, and roots.

He lay on the verge of starvation, clutching a letter from his little girl. The letter, obviously written with the help of her mother, read, “Daddy, Jesus loves you.”

Steve had not been raised a Christian and had never prayed. But tonight as he lay near death, he thought about those words. He thought about his little girl. He wondered for the first time whether there really was a God, and if so, could He really love someone like him?

Tears filled his eyes. “God, if you can hear me, please take care of my wife and my baby girl.”

The stars above him blurred through his tears, but as he watched, one of the stars began to intensify. It grew brighter and brighter until it seemed to be falling right on top of him. He covered his head as the blinding light suddenly transformed into a helicopter, landing no more than fifty feet away from him in a small clearing.

He stood and groped his way to the edge of the clearing. As the pilot got out of the helicopter, Steve could plainly make out the letters USMC, and a United States flag. It was a miracle!

The pilot jumped out to help Steve into the helicopter. Steve couldn’t help but notice the name painted on the helicopter’s side: “The Star of David.”

Sandy held her little girl on her lap and gently stroked her hair, her eyes intent on the flames crackling in the fireplace. Christmas Eve, and they would spend it alone. She looked at the simple Christmas tree that stood beside them, covered with sparkling decor that she and Beth had crafted together.

Her eye caught sight of the three stockings hanging from the mantle and bit her bottom lip. Her body shook as she held back the sobs. At least I have little Beth, she thought. Steve would always be near her in the eyes of her little girl.

The knock at the door made her jump. Her heart sank. Truly, she was in no mood for company tonight. It took every ounce of strength she had left to lift her little girl and move to the door. She wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself before opening the door.

A young Marine private stood proudly before her, a rose and a purple ribbon in his hand. Sandy fell to her knees in disbelief. It was Steve! He swept up his little girl and gave her the ribbon, then reached out and pulled his wife into his arms.

Sandy held onto him as if she would never let go. “They told me you were lost!”

“I was. But a star fell from heaven and found me.”

I stood silently admiring the little ribbon and the miracle it represented. I wished that I had such treasures as God did. He truly was a God of the great and the small. He did so much for that family, for that little girl, without seeking praise or reward. He had done it out of love. He had done it just for one.

Ruby Jane

Ruby Jane was born the twelfth of thirteen children of a poor ironworker from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. With five older brothers, she would on many occasions be forced to wear her brother’s shoes, overalls and other clothes.

Ruby Jane was not a pretty child and was often driven to tears by the vicious scorn directed at her by other children. Boys would throw stones at her, while girls laughed and called her names. Her shy disposition only seemed to encourage their actions and added to the pain she felt at being a complete social outcast. She hated the other children and their relentless abuse almost as much as she hated herself. Sometimes, when she would walk past the store windows, she would look at her own reflection and wonder why God would create someone as pitiful as herself.

Each day at school was a nightmare of unending anguish, ended only by crying herself to sleep. Her prayers often echoed the same theme: “Dear God, please take me from this horrible life. Don’t make me suffer through another day.”

Ruby Jane’s home was no more than a run down shack in the southside ghetto. She shared a room with four older brothers and never found privacy except in the late night hours that she would spend by her bedroom window that faced an alley. There she watched the rats rummage through the garbage and the cats fight.

“Why?” She would cry out to God. “Why must I be so ugly? Why can’t I be popular and liked for who I am? Why don’t you hear my prayers?”

But God had heard her prayers, each and every one of them! God’s wisdom in how He would provide an answer could not be understood in those pain-filled years of her youth. His patience and resolve made it seem as if He didn’t hear the cries of this child. But He had, and He cried along with her. He was there with her each and every day. He was near every sleepless night. Soon, her answer would arrive.

Ruby Jane completed elementary school an average student and began high school with a whole new crowd. She controlled her jealousy of the other girls with their pretty new dresses by indulging herself in sports. Sports became that one thing at which she excelled without the help of others.

On one occasion during her senior year, she was engaged in a track meet on a chilly autumn afternoon. Halfway around the track she was tripped, and she fell into a small puddle while the other girls sprinted ahead unconcerned. She stood to her feet and brushed the mud from her knees as she stepped back onto the track. She narrowed her eyes on the group that was disappearing around the final curve. With the speed of a deer she darted forward through the racing girls, crossing the finish line twenty yards ahead of them.

A coach from a prestigious Eastern college was there that day watching his granddaughter participate in her first race. He watched in disbelief as a young black girl outran all the other girls with a speed that seemed propelled by angel’s wings. Her effortless gait and graceful stride was a gift with which few people are blessed. That coach saw to it that Ruby Jane received a scholarship, all expenses paid. There she received the finest education available.

Several years later, as she stood on a raised platform receiving her second gold medal within a week, she thought about the mean children who had tortured her as a child. She wondered if any of them remembered her and how they had tormented her. She could still feel the sting of the rocks thrown by those little boys, but none of that seemed to matter now. She was no longer the same person. After setting two world records at the summer Olympics, and receiving two gold and one silver medal, she was now on top of the world.

As the crowd cheered her achievements she stood proudly for her nation. She thought about the better than two hundred million people of her country that she represented. She no longer had to feel ashamed, for this day she had finally proved to herself and to everyone else that she was the best of them all.

Ruby Jane looked through tear-filled eyes, over the walls of the coliseum up into the bright blue sky above. She looked into the smiling face of God who was with her all along. She finally understood that God had indeed heard her prayers every cold and lonely night. For the first time in her life she thanked Him for how He made her.

Before ever she was born, God had fashioned her for His glory. God gave her a body of speed, so she ran.

I placed the gold medal down on the stand from where I had taken it. “God answered her prayers before she even knew what to ask.”

The angel nodded and smiled approvingly. “God gave her a beauty that none of her peers could begin to understand. He gave her the grace and the speed of angels.”

Rita

Rita grew up on the western plains of Texas in the small town of Chapel. Chapel, with a population of around nine hundred, offered absolutely nothing for an adventurous young girl like Rita. She wanted to see the world! She dreamed of safaris in Africa, voyages to the tropical islands in the Pacific. Sometimes she would sit at the top of the hill at her ranch home, letting her mind wander over the rolling hills of the plains and dreaming of being missionary to China or finding the cure for a dreadful disease. Deep in her innermost being, she knew that a life of exploration was in her future.

Over the years, her dreams were overtaken by the realities of everyday life, but she never forgot them completely. The unexpected deaths of her mother and father brought a clear conflict with her life long dreams. Since she was the eldest of her family’s six children, she was forced to quit school to take over her parents’ responsibilities and to carve out a living for the other children. She held down several jobs while trying to keep a clean house. Her normally bright smile diminished with each passing year as the sun setting over the quiet Texas prairie.

Even though it had become painfully obvious to her that her dreams would never be realized, she continued to visit the small local library and absorb books on foreign countries. Sometimes, late at night when she was certain that no one could hear her, she wept quietly to God.

“It’s not fair, Lord,” she would pray. “Why have you given me a heart to do such wonderful things but lock me in this little place? Why? Why?”

God collected the tears that fell from Rita’s face and held them tenderly. He wanted so much to sweep her up in His arms and comfort her, but her bitterness would not allow it. Instead He stood near, listening to her every prayer.

Years went by and the last of her siblings left home for college. They would have a future that she could never enjoy. They possessed lives full of opportunity and hope, something of which she became quite envious.

Not long after that, Rita married. Together she and her husband farmed the ranch land, and she bore seven children.

Rita eventually gave up her resentment of God and served Him devoutly all the days of her life. She realized that she would never see her hopes and dreams materialize, so she put her heart into her children. She instilled into them the sense of adventure that she felt and took them each week without fail to the library where they explored the world together.

Rita eventually died in the small town of Chapel. In her whole lifetime, she never once left her home state of Texas. But before she died, she was able to give genuine thanksgiving to God for the life of adventure he had given her: her dreams had been realized in the lives of her children.

Her two oldest sons were missionaries to China and India. Together they had established twenty-three churches. Her next son piloted the space shuttle, while her fourth son worked as a technician in a medical research clinic. She never really understood which diseases he had helped to cure, but she kept every newspaper article about them. Her fifth son became the captain of an aircraft carrier -- the largest and most powerful ship afloat. His voyages took him across every ocean and sea of the world. Her sixth son became an author and changed the world with his writings. Her seventh son became an engineer, building bridges for railroads throughout Africa and South America.

She had received weekly pictures and letters from her sons and their families. It was an unending adventure that took her to so many places that she would probably never have known on her own. She saw the world through the eyes of her children. And they, to her credit, passed on to their own children the same hope of adventure. So Rita died a happy and fulfilled woman.

I placed the old worn out library card back onto the stand. “Do you think she ever really understood? Do you think she ever recognized that God did answer her prayers?”

The angel studied me for a moment as if my question had never occurred to him before. “You must not think in such limited terms. You seem to see your life as having an ending at death. God does not see your life that way. To the Almighty, physical death is merely the crossing of a bridge into a much deeper relationship with Him. Today Rita is with the Lord. Her every question has been answered.”

Marie

Suddenly the angel and I were no longer alone. The new visitor seemed more man-like than any of the angels appeared to be. His radiant face was not the same impassive pristine porcelain countenance of an angel. He expressed emotion!

The visitor seemed unconcerned with my presence; he had eyes only for the article on the glistening stand before him. I strained to see what it was that he found so captivating. It wasn’t anything special, just a small worn Bible that seemed to be covered in blood . . .

Marie and John Carpenter met in Bible College while they were still both in their teens. John was a passionate young man with a fiery determination to take the gospel to the world. Marie, who had been brought up in a Christian home, loved God with all her heart and was instantly drawn to the enthusiastic young man. Marie shared John’s dreams, even if she didn’t possess his passion. She was dedicated to God nonetheless. They were married within a year and left to minister in a small African country as soon as they graduated.

Upon entering the country, Marie presented her husband with a small Bible with the follow inscription inside the front cover:

May the words in this book be our bond, and forever guide each decision we make. May we honor each other forever!

Your loving wife

John ministered daily to whomever he met. He preached faithfully from sun up to sun down but found few results for his efforts. His dreams of changing Africa did not diminish even after two years of service had resulted in only a small congregation of believers.

John would talk enthusiastically late into the night with his beloved Marie. He just knew they were on the verge of a great outpouring of God. He believed this fervently no matter how fruitless his work appeared to be. Even as a tyrannical ruler took over the government, John continued to believe that the outpouring was imminent.

Then, not long after this tyrant took power, the borders of the African country were closed. John was unconcerned since he was determined to stay anyway. Then came the dreadful night that changed the direction of their lives.

Soldiers stormed the village and executed the village leaders. John and Marie were dragged from their little hut into the street. John was beaten without mercy. The soldiers taunted him, demanding that he tell the people of the village that he had lied to them, that there was no God. But John was unwavering, and the soldiers knew he would maintain the truth even unto death.

Marie was forced to watch in horror. She ran out into the street to try to stop them, but they held her back. Struggling violently against her captors, she screamed at them to stop, and to her surprise, they did. John’s bloodied face turned toward her. The leader grunted in her direction, “All right then, you tell them! Tell them you lied and I will let him live.”

Marie froze, astonished. His life was in her hands. What should she do?

John mustered his remaining strength. “Honor, Marie! Remember? Don’t dishonor me by giving me a coward for a wife! Honor me with your silence!”

Marie hung her head and wept. She cried out to God to deliver them. Though she could no longer see him through the mob surrounding him, she could hear his cries and groans throughout the night. She cried and cried until she could cry no more. She sat, numb, until morning finally came and the soldiers left. She clung to the lifeless body of her husband, beaten to death.

Clutched tightly in his hand was the blood-soaked Bible she had given him. It was open and a passage was underlined in his blood. “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

She rocked back and forth, cradling his head in her arms and crying out to God, “Why? Why?” They had always served God and wanted nothing more than to continue to serve him, but what good could possibly come from this?

She didn’t see her angel standing before the Lord, nor did she know the way her answer was to come.

With her own hands, she buried her husband and caressed the earth with her tears. She laid him to rest in the village that he had loved so much... among the people he died trying to save. But she was determined to leave that horrible place and go home to her family.

She got as far as the airport before the dying words of her husband came back to haunt her. “Don’t dishonor me by giving me a coward for a wife!” No, she would not leave. To do so would be admitting that the soldiers were right. She whirled about and returned to the little village.

Something had changed within her. She ministered with her husband’s passion and enthusiasm. In her heart was determination that she had never known before. Over the next few weeks, dozens of people came to God. But it was only the beginning.

Marie continued to preach for years to come, never returning to her homeland. She witnessed the outpouring of God’s spirit that her husband had longed to see. She became known as “the Lady of Red” because she began her ministry still covered in her husband’s blood. She preached from one end of the nation to the other and saw tens of thousands saved. Her ministry eventually brought an end to the rule of the tyrant responsible for her husband’s death. Eventually, even he gave his life to God.

When Marie died many years later, she was buried in a small village near her husband’s grave. She never understood the reason for his death. She honored him the first time with her silence, but in the end, she honored him with her interminable voice.

The visitor clutched the Bible near his chest, and I thought I saw a tear. How strange, I thought. I didn’t know angels could cry. Then when he set the Bible back onto the stand I saw a scar on his hand: it was Jesus who stood beside me.

He turned to me and said, “Martyrs have a special place in my kingdom, for I, too, was a martyr.”

Speechless, I watched him turn and leave. All I could think of was the story of the Carpenters and the fact that even though she did not know it, God had answered her prayer. John didn’t die that day. His passion filled her heart, his words poured from her lips, and his enthusiasm manifested itself through her on a scale that he had never known himself.

John did live to see the outpouring for which he yearned, and he did change the little nation he loved so much by changing the heart of his wife. God knew something that no one else did: the secret was within Marie all the time. She only needed a spark. God changed a nation as John had asked. He did it for John. He did it just for one.

I continued to contemplate the blood-soaked Bible for a long time. Though I cannot see them, I know that today Marie stands hand-in-hand with her husband before the throne of God.

Ryan

Then the next stand caught my eye. Upon it sat a little red tennis shoe, obviously from a very small boy. It looked so much like my own little boy’s shoe.

“His name was Ryan.” The angel had answered my question even before I had a chance to ask it.

“Can I touch it?”

The angel nodded. So I gently picked it up and rolled it over in my hand. Such a small shoe from such a small boy, I thought, and I knew there was bound to be a sad story associated with it also. As I stared at it I thought about my own son. I couldn’t imagine anything happening to him.

Ryan was the only child of Ruth and Bill Martinez. He was a happy, active six-year-old boy with an unquenchable curiosity. They lived in a small country community at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Southwest California. He wasn’t a bad boy: he was just easily distracted. Even after countless warnings, he just could not stay away from the forest behind their house. The forest, an eighty-square-mile state park, was rich in wild life of every kind, a paradise for experienced hikers. But on this fateful day, it would become an island of terror.

Ryan was playing in the back yard when a small furry creature caught his attention. He dropped his cup of caterpillars and slowly approached the animal. It watched him inquisitively as he neared, then slowly began to move away. Being the curious child he was, Ryan had no choice but to follow. The animal wasted no time scampering back into the safety of its forest home but Ryan had no intention of letting it go so easily. He pranced after it, giggling in excitement as he went. It wasn’t a deliberate act of disobedience: he was caught up in the moment. He was just a little boy acting on impulse.

That tiny woodchuck led Ryan back into the woods, deeper than he had ever been, then vanished into a hole. Ryan found that hole and was soon engaged in examining every detail. However, in his zeal to find the animal, his glasses fell down into the hole beyond his reach.

In time, when the animal did not come out, Ryan was again distracted with more new things. Birds and squirrels seemed to be beckoning him still further into the woods. Before long, he was hopelessly lost. Curiosity was giving way to fear. Where was home? He tried to get back but he just could not remember. Little did he know that the direction he was traveling would only take him further away from his home and deeper into the forest.

He continued to follow a clearing through the trees until nightfall. It seemed familiar, similar to a small road that led through the thick brush. Then, as darkness settled, the friendly forest started to transform into a spooky hollow. He found himself making his way along a rocky crest when a sudden rustling in the brush startled him. He darted under a fallen tree that lay precariously atop a rocky crest along his path. As he struggled to hide, his shoe became lodged in a stone crevice and slipped off his foot.

He pressed through an opening in the rocks anyway, leaving his shoe behind. Without his glasses he couldn’t make out the rocky tunnel that lay on the other side of the rocks. So without warning, he tumbled down into its depths. Ryan screamed in pain as he landed on his right leg and broke his ankle. The pain was overwhelming, and he soon passed out from the shock.

Ruth was busy preparing supper and didn’t realize that Ryan was missing until she tried to call him in to eat. It was a mother’s worst nightmare. A quick search through the yard revealed the spilled cup of caterpillars near the edge of the forest. Suspecting that he had been unable to resist the temptations of the forbidden forest, she ran into the forest shouting his name, but after searching for fifteen minutes her greatest fears were realized: Ryan was lost!

Within the hour the police, neighbors, and fire department had joined together in a search. With night approaching there was an urgency to act. To make matters worse, a gentle rain began to fall across the community. If it continued, there would be no point to bringing in dogs to track the little boy.

As groups of searchers headed out in every direction, Ruth waited impatiently at the house for news. The news networks picked up the story and asked the public for help. Before long, everyone in the area was watching for the child.

The search continued long into the night without success. With the rain continuing to fall, the search was postponed around midnight. They would continue again at first light. Perhaps by then the rain would stop. Their search that evening had taken them about a mile deep into the forest. Having not found any sign of him made many believe that foul play may have been involved.

Ruth and Bill spent the rest of the night praying and Bill continued to search the forest. Notwithstanding, it seemed to be in vain.

Ryan woke up in the early morning hours to a gentle trickle of water falling on his face. He hurt from the cuts and bruises that covered his body. When he tried to move, pains once again shot through his leg making his escape impossible. Paralyzed by pain and fear, he lay there and cried. He was just a little boy alone in the dark.

Over the next twelve hours he drifted in and out of consciousness. By the evening of the second day, he was burning up with fever and no longer coherent. If he were not found soon, he would die. In his condition, he was completely unaware that someone was standing directly above him calling his name.

Ruth stayed on her knees in her bedroom throughout the following day. With the number of people involved in the search and the large area they had already covered, she knew that the only hope for her son’s safe return was through Divine intervention. Her voice was hoarse and her mouth dry. She thought about her little boy as she knelt before God and cried. Memories of his laughter, his first words, his first steps . . . these things filled her mind. How could it be possible for her to love anyone this much? she wondered.

She hugged herself and moaned. How she could ever live without her little boy? She couldn’t understand why God let this tragedy come to her little family. Her heart was being torn from her chest. Pain that only a mother could know, an intimacy that could only be shared by the one who bore the child bled from her aching heart. Then with all her strength she lifted her hands to heaven, clenching her fists tightly.

“He’s just a little boy, my Lord!” She shouted. “Please God, be merciful!”

The angel had been waiting patiently nearby. That cry, the heartfelt cry of desperation, was irresistible. He stepped forward and cupped his hand, catching a single tear that fell. Then, without interruption, he darted upward.

But the prayers of the saints had been rising to God without end. The Almighty was very aware of the trouble little Ryan was in. Now seeing the precious tear dropped into the hands of the angel, it was a request that God could not deny.

God reached forth and took the teardrop, holding it up before His face. Such a precious thing! Such a terrible thing, He thought. What a tragedy it was that any of His children had to know such pain! He knew Ruth’s heart and He knew her pain. He knew the loss she felt for Ryan, for He felt it, too, when he lost His own Son.

“Michael!” God announced. “See that Ryan is joined to his mother.”

At once Michael flew away. He flew toward the earth with indescribable speed. He understood the urgency if Ryan was to be saved. Michael flew deep into the earth, miles below the surface, and stopped at a long crack in the rocks. Then, he pulled forth his mighty sword and with a single powerful swing, he struck the rocks with all his extraordinary strength. The rocks shifted only slightly, but high above, on the surface, the ground began to shake. Buildings fell, bridges collapsed, and utility lines broke. The ground folded and split open as the San Andreas Fault shifted. Hundreds of millions of dollars in damage was sustained in an instant. The reason for the quake was not seen in the damage, nor was it understood by the millions that it effected. The reason for the quake was seen three hundred fifty miles from its center.

The community searching for a missing boy barely noticed the rattling of their windows. However, just under a mile away, deep in the forest, a fallen tree that lay atop a rocky crest tumbled down. The gentle vibration was all that was needed to cause the side of the same rocky hill to slide away. The small crevice where Ryan lay split apart, exposing the injured child.

Trey Graber couldn’t believe his misfortune. An expert tracker for the State Forest Department, he had started out that morning to aid in the search. However, he was faced with delay after delay. It seemed that some power was at work bent on stopping him from getting there. Twice he was held up with a flat tire. Incorrect road signs had sent him miles out of the way. Then there was an earthquake that flattened a bridge, requiring him to make a long detour.

Four o’clock in the morning and he was just now arriving at the little boy’s home. By now the child was spending his second night alone in the forest. Time was critical so he wasted no time with the normal process of gathering necessary information from local officials. Instead he began his search immediately.

Drawing from what he already knew, he went to the backyard and began to look around. What would have drawn the little boy into the forest? he wondered. He knew that understanding the child’s thinking was as important as finding his trail. He searched the nearby foliage for twenty minutes before finding what he was looking for: a woodchuck’s hole in the ground. He carefully reached into the hole and felt around. Under the leaves he found his first clue: a pair of child-size glasses!

Trey sat down and tried to imagine what must have happened next. Assuming that the boy was disoriented, what would be his next move? Most people tend to follow the path of least resistance, so he carefully made his way down the hill. It emptied into a clearing in the trees, in what appeared to be the path of an abandoned railroad.

He followed it in a direction that led away from the house and continued looking for any clue of the child. It was unexplainable but somehow he knew that he was close. No detail escaped his trained eye. Ever stone, every tree, even the birds above spoke volumes. The sun would soon be rising and the chance of the boy being alive was quickly dwindling.

Trey searched diligently with his flashlight as he proceeded painfully slowly. Then something got his attention. It was a detail that would have easily been missed by all but a professional observer. There was a tree blocking the trail. Fresh broken limbs and flatten brush indicated that it had recently rolled there. This wasn’t much to go on, but Trey knew from years of tracking that every detail must be examined.

He examined where it came from and concluded that it must have rolled there from a rock crest to the side of the trail. He looked about to determine which way the boy would have gone -- probably through the nearby brush. He moved the grass to one side and a small boy’s tennis shoe appeared. His heart leaped as he realized that he was indeed on the trail.

He reasoned that the child probably would not have ventured on without his shoe, that is to say, not unless something had prevented him. He pulled back more of the brush to reveal the base of the rocky crest. Then he pulled himself over the top and shined his light down the hill. There, lying on a shallow ledge, was the body of a small boy. Trey looked back at the tree and realized that had it not been for the tree blocking his path he may never have found the child.

Ruth had not slept at all as she continued to pray. The light in the window told her that morning was quickly approaching. Despair was overwhelming as she was beginning to resign herself to the fact that she was never going to see her child again. Out front she could hear the noise of rescue workers arriving to begin another day of search. She wondered how long they would continue.

She wiped her eyes. Her tears had formed a thin salty crust around them. Why hadn’t God heard her? she wondered. Why did all this happen?

She rose and moved outside to pray by the swing set that her son had loved so much. But as she stepped off the porch, she noticed a strange man walking out of the forest. In his arms he carried the limp body of a little boy. She ran forward as tears streamed down her face. Her vision was blurred as she took hold of her son and hugged him tightly. He was alive! Unable to stand she dropped to her knees and gushed a thousand thank-you’s to the man who found him and to the God who heard her cries.

Of course, she never really understood the role that heaven played in the rescue of her son. She was only vaguely aware that an earthquake had caused major damage along the coastal cities. God never told her of how her pain had touched His heart. God never took credit for bringing about the rescue of Ryan because God does not boast of the work He performs on our behalf. He and His angels are the silent guardians of the righteous, and the hope of the faithful.

Nor did anyone else ever give a thought to how the two seemingly unrelated events were connected. Trey never gave another thought to how that tree came to block his path, allowing him to discover the child. I, however, was not likely to forget. What incredible love our God has for those who love Him, I thought. God had literally moved the earth for that child. If He would use an earthquake to move a tree, then it was no wonder that He would send His Son to remove our sins! The words of the scripture took on a whole new meaning: “BEHOLD, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God.”

I placed the little shoe back on the stand. I could understand why this place was held in such esteem. These things were truly priceless! I marveled at God who could create a universe and yet see value of a child’s shoe.

Joseph

Still overwhelmed by what I had just seen, I moved on to the next stand. Upon it sat a small golden crown. Its simple construction implied that a man who placed little emphasis on material wealth probably wore it.

“A crown?” I asked. “It seems out of place among the other more simple objects.”

“This crown was worn by a man whom the Most High placed as a ruler in Egypt.”

I examined the shiny metal and noticed a dent in one side. “Does the dent have any significance?” I asked.

“Yes!” The angel answered emphatically, his admiring eyes never leaving it.

Joseph was a young boy when he first started having dreams. It soon became clear to his older brothers that he was arrogant as well as their father’s favorite. Watching their father pour over their little brother while they had to work in the fields without so much as a thank-you was more than they could bear. The fact that he was born of a different mother -- a mother whom their father made no excuses for loving more than their own -- only made the situation worse.

Joseph truly was different. His favor extended beyond that of mortal man. He was special to God as well. On the surface there didn’t seem to be any difference between him and others. However, it wasn’t the outside that God was interested in but his heart.

It was as if there were an aura around him! Anyone who got close to him understood that he possessed a certain insight that wasn’t typical. He talked of God as if He were a friend, not a God who demanded worship and sacrifice. For Joseph, worshipping the Lord was something to enjoy, not something to give out of duty or tradition. His insight was either admired or hated, sometimes both, by those who knew him. He was charismatic! And his father loved him more his brethren, so his brethren grew to hate him, eventually passionately.

The final straw? When their father chose to give Joseph an expensive and colorful coat for no apparent reason. Coats like that were difficult to come by in this region, and Joseph took every opportunity to show it off, rubbing salt in their already deep wounds.

One very exceptionally hot day, his brothers had finally reached their limit. For days they worked long hours in the blistering heat, and all the while they could see Joseph sitting in the shade enjoying the comforts of home. Initially, they just joked about killing him, but before the day was over, they found themselves actually plotting it.

The following day, when Joseph came by and spoke of another of his dreams, they grabbed him and mocked him about his dream in which they would one day bow down to him. It was as if they were trying to build up enough courage to actually follow through on their plans. It was one thing to plan, but to act required much more.

Reuben, though angry also, had a concern for his youngest brother. He talked his other brothers out of laying their hands on Joseph in favor of leaving him to die in a deep pit. He secretly hoped to return later to free the boy. They tossed Joseph into the pit and left him there. But some of them decided it would be better to sell him and make some money off him. A passing caravan headed to Egypt would prove a much more fitting punishment. Instead of a ruler, Joseph would become a slave. A few coins exchanged hands and Joseph was on his way to Egypt. His brothers believed they would never have to lay eyes on him again.

Joseph’s brothers lied to their father. They tore up the colorful coat and stained it with the blood of an animal. They told their father that they found the coat, allowing their father to draw his own conclusions about what had happened.

None of the brothers had given much thought to the consequences of their actions. Nor did they expect to feel such guilt and grief. But after watching their father grieve for weeks on end, refusing to eat, they knew that they had made a tragic error. They knew that they would put up with a lifetime of jealousy if only they could undo what they had done. The whole family felt the pain of their action. But the worst punishment for their crime was the knowledge that they must go to their deaths never having had an opportunity to ask forgiveness for their sin. Their father could never find out what they had done. If he did, they all knew that he would spend the rest of his life searching for him.

Over the following years, as the brothers married and had children of their own, they came to understand how fathers enjoy the younger children. It is not that the older ones are loved any less, just in a more personal way. They began to identify with the inexplicable hurt one feels over the lost of a child and what they had put their own father through. But no amount of crying and pleading to God could undo the terrible thing that they had conspired to do to their own brother. In time, they could no longer look each other in the face -- they began to drift apart.

Joseph was in his mid-teens when he became a slave, sold to an important government official in Egypt and made to serve in his mansion. Joseph served his master with all the dedication with which he served God. It was no surprise when after a few years Joseph found himself trusted and in charge of his master’s household. He was comfortable, but he was still a slave.

Joseph’s life was by no means easy. As he grew he developed into a fine-looking man, and his master’s wife noticed. She began to flirt with him. At first she used suggestive mannerisms in private, but eventually she made public passes at him. Then, after several months of brazen public displays of affection, she actually attacked him physically.

Joseph struggled away from her, crushing her ego and pride. During the next few days, her anger over the rejection grew until she could no longer control her rage. She had never been scorned by a servant before and wanted revenge. Without warning, guards came and took him away, delivering him to the palace prison deep below the palace floor. At first, he did not even know what he had done, that he was accused of attacking his master’s wife. Only his master’s favor kept him from being executed.

Joseph tried in vain to convince the jailers to allow him to talk to his master, but there would be no conversation and no trial. The accusations were enough to put him in prison for life. He would never again see the daylight sky or listen to the sounds of leaves rustling in the wind. He was condemned to spend the rest of his life within these cold, dark prison walls.

Over the next few months Joseph’s heart sank to an all time low. Time, in the darkness of his cell, lost all meaning. Had he been there a day, a week, a month? There was no schedule to mealtime either. He was supposed to be fed once a day, but this could happen at anytime of the day, and only if the guards felt like it. Some prisoners who complained were simply forgotten, and they eventually starved to death in their cells. This was a place where a man lost his humanity and often his will to live.

The same was true of Joseph. His despair was so complete that he wanted nothing more than to die. He shared his dark cell with rats that served only to eat his bodily waste. He was not allowed to wash or change his garments. Few men survived these conditions beyond a few years.

One dark night as he sat alone in his dingy cell crying, he felt he could endure no longer. He had lost his family. He had lost his freedom. He was ready to lose his life. Even though only a few months had passed, he believed that years had passed. As tears streamed down his grimy face, he considered ways in which he might take his own life. Ending his miserable and meaningless existence seemed the only answer to his pain. But try as he may, he could not bring himself to give up his faith in God.

Joseph’s angel stood near, simply observing. Then he reached forth and caught a single tear on the tip of his finger and flew up to the throne of God. He entered God’s presence and held out his hand, presenting the teardrop to the Lord.

God received the tear and held it close to His face.

“You’ve brought me another of Joseph’s tear’s,” God spoke in hushed tones.

“I have enough of his tears to fill a book... My heart hurts to see him suffer. I’ve heard the prayers of his brothers and know of their repentance. Their prayers have become a memorial before me. However I must remain still until the pride that caused Joseph to fall is completely removed from his life. It was this pride that brought about my disfavor. I have many plans for Joseph’s life and I must make sure there is found in him a humble heart... a servant’s heart. It pains me to watch him suffer, but he has not yet chosen, so I must send you away without an answer.”

Joseph never complained. He remained silent and accepted the tribulation that God had allowed to befall him. The guards were impressed with the quiet prisoner who accepted his punishment without insubordination. Over time, they allowed him personal freedom within the prison. There he performed most of the guards’ chores. He delivered food in a timely manner, he cleaned the cells as if they were rooms in his own house, and above all, he proved himself trustworthy. He never gave a hint that he thought of escape. Rather, he became the model prisoner, and the memories of the outside world, his family, and his freedom all but vanished.

Joseph’s family was not so blessed. The guilt of their crime against Joseph all but destroyed his brothers. Reuben was particularly troubled. Though he had prevented the others from killing Joseph, he still hated himself for not succeeding in returning him safely home. How could any of them have known the years of pain they would all endure?

Reuben prayed daily for his brother, asking that one day God would reunite them. He prayed that God would keep his brother safe, and watch over him. He could only hope that someday his prayers would be answered. Many times he sat outside his tent in the cool night air and wept for his brother. Those tears did not go unseen. God collected them and listened intently to his prayers. Slowly and deliberately God began to work...

One day, Joseph met two servants of the Pharaoh, a butler and a cook. In one of his dark moods, Pharaoh had become angry and locked them both up. A few days after they arrived, Joseph was delivering their meals, and they told him of their troubling dreams. The dreams seemed so perfectly obvious in meaning that he could not help but tell them. But he was only a slave. Why should they accept his word?

Within the next few days, both servants were removed from the jail. Their dreams came to pass just as Joseph had predicted. But the chance meeting with the accurate dream interpreter was quickly forgotten.

No one on earth, or in heaven for that matter, knew that this meeting was only the first link in the chain of events that would eventually lead to Joseph’s release from prison. Several years later, Pharaoh would find himself tormented by a dream that robbed him of his sleep and obsessed his every wakening hour. He could think of nothing but understanding the dream. Eventually, Pharaoh’s butler remembered the young man who had accurately interpreted his own dream and told the Pharaoh about him.

To Joseph, it was just another day of working in the prisons. When Pharaoh’s personal guards entered the prison, he had no idea that he was about to earn a great deal more than his freedom. All he knew was that these guards were taking him to Pharaoh’s court, presumably to be put to death. Once again tears filled his eyes and dripped down his face. He had suffered so much and now was about to be put to death. As another tear fell from his face into the waiting angel’s hand, he hung his head and knelt before the Pharaoh’s throne.

The angel moved swiftly to the throne of God and presented the tear. This time God took the tear and placed it in His Book of Remembrance. He turned to the heavenly host who waited in anticipation of His answer. All of heaven had been waiting for this day to come.

“The time has come for me to overturn Joseph’s captivity,” the Lord announced. “Joseph will not die in Pharaoh’s court, for I myself have intervened on Joseph’s behalf.”

The angels marveled! Seldom did the Lord himself move on behalf of his servants. It was generally the responsibility of the angels to provide for their needs. For God to have answered Himself, there must have been year after year of unceasing prayer and supplication offered up by many of His servants.

“Behold the salvation of Joseph,” God’s voice shook heaven.

Then as the heavenly hosts watched, a teary-eyed Joseph presented the interpretation of the dream to Pharaoh: seven years of bountiful harvests would be followed by seven years of famine.

No one could have predicted that a chance meeting between Joseph and Pharaoh’s butler would have result years later in Joseph’s position beside the throne of Egypt. When the sons of Jacob sold their brother into slavery, no one could have predicted that their action born of jealousy would someday result in the rescue of their own families during a time of terrible famine.

No one could have known that God’s prolonged patience to answer the prayers and pleas of his servants was to ensure humility in the heart of a future ruler. Such humility filled him, that when he was reunited with his family he cast aside his crown, denting it on one side.

Who would have ever believed that God would bless a nation with seven years of bounty just to reunite a broken family? Who but God could reunite a family that was broken by sin? Who but God would put such value on the tears of a broken man? Who but God would listen to the pleas of despair that echoed through the walls of a dark lonely cell? Who but God would change the course of history just to heal a broken heart? Who but God indeed?

Once again I found myself too choked up to speak. I thought about the mistakes of my own life and what God may have done on my behalf. I thought about the times in my own life when I felt that God was not listening to my prayers. Perhaps He had heard them all, I thought. Perhaps, just like Joseph, the answer was in the works and would be understood by me in time. Perhaps, just like Joseph, there was something in my own heart that needed to change before the answer could be realized.

To think of how far down Joseph had gone and the fact that, even at that depth, God was able to restore him -- what a marvelous thought! Who but God could see possibilities in such an impossible situations? When situations are beyond our control, we are still in God’s hands! How wondrous!

I looked again at the dented crown. No one but God would do so much... just for one.

Donald McNeal

It was Christmas Eve, and Donald was on his way home from an Air Force Base in Germany. He had been stationed there for three years and was accustomed to this flight to Great Britain. It was almost routine for him. This afternoon, he was the last flight to leave the base before it closed for Christmas. It was a quiet and peaceful time in Europe. Many of the bases would be closing and many military people would go home on leave.

He flew a black Vampire jet, which by modern standards was an antique. But in the winter of 1958 it was a fighter to be reckoned with. Far below him he could see the fog rolling inland over the shores France as the last bit of sunlight dipped below the distant horizon. The lights from the country farms were slowly dissolving into the misty night air. Soon there would be nothing to see him but fog.

Donald was consumed with thoughts of the holidays. His wife and five children would be eagerly awaiting his arrival. Together, they would sit near an open fire and after a festive meal they would open their presents together. It was a time that Donald looked forward to through out the year.

His distraction with his holiday plans was suddenly interrupted by a loud click, and then all the lights in his cockpit went out. He looked over his gauges to determine the extent of damage. Nothing seemed to be working -- radio included.

He tried not to panic. Situations like this demand cool and careful thinking, he knew. The main fuse for his cockpit must have shorted out. Sad to say, it was located under the front console. He would not be able to work on it while in flight, especially at night. What were options? In minutes he would be totally lost since his compass and other positioning equipment were gone.

He knew that by now he would be well over the English Channel. So he began a maneuver that he was taught to do in the event of an emergency. He would fly one minute forward, then turn ninety degrees and fly another minute. This process would continue until he was to be rescued. The idea was that his flying would create a giant square, and that some radar operator below would notice this pattern. Radar operators were trained to spot this pattern as a sign for help. They would then vector some other flight near the distressed aircraft to provide help. However, Christmas Eve of 1958 would find few, if any, radar operators manning their post.

He understood that with the thick fog below he stood very little chance of landing his jet safely. In fact, more than likely attempting to land blind would not only kill him but civilians below. At least his current position over the Channel posed little threat to people on land.

He looked at his watch in the dim starry night as he made his first turn. He would need to be patient. It could take a half-hour or more before help arrived. To steady his nerves he began to ponder past Christmases and what his family had done together. However, as time went by, he ran out of Christmases.

An hour passed quickly. He had slowed his turbine and thinned his mixture as much as possible to conserve fuel, but if help didn’t arrive soon it would be too late. He struggled against the impulse to try and find land. The idea of killing some family below on Christmas Eve was not something he wanted to be remembered by. Yet the vision of a lonely jet plugging silently into the cold dark waters below was just as chilling.

Without gauges he could only guess at his fuel supply. It must be nearly gone. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

“Please God!” he cried out loud. “Please don’t let this happen! Do something, please!”

God watched his servant in the damaged jet below. In His mighty hand He cupped the single teardrop that had been brought to Him by Donald’s angel. His great heart ached for Donald as He watched patiently.

“You see this child?” God asked Michael. “He has served Me and taught his children to reverence Me. He, like so many of My children, doesn’t understand the love I have for him. He is faithful to My Word but never asks anything from Me. Therefore, I have allowed this trouble to come upon him to teach him that if he asks anything of Me, I will answer. Therefore, go now and help My servant Donald.”

Donald’s body trembled as he began to prepare himself for the worst. He would be another statistic, a flight that failed to arrive. They would probably discover it in a day or two, but by then it would be too late. The waters of the Channel were cold enough to kill a man in less than an hour.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash split the night sky in front of him. It flew a straight line and was slowly descending. Was it another aircraft? Not that it mattered, Donald told himself. Anything was better than what he currently had: nothing.

He turned his jet to pursue the light. Within minutes he was directly behind it. Strange, he thought. I can’t make out the silhouette of the other aircraft.

The light continued to descend into the fog below with Donald following as closely as he dared. It was unnerving to fly blindly into the darkness. He flipped a switch and felt his jet shutter as the landing gear unfolded from under his jet. He continued to go down into the blackness. Then, his jet began to sputter. His fuel was almost exhausted!

“Help me, God!” He shouted as everything became silent.

His jet was now gliding -- something that it was not designed to do. However, instead of the jet’s nose dropping, sending him falling out of the sky, he continued a steady descent. Then, to his surprise, a runway suddenly appeared in front of him and the light that had guided him there simply disappeared!

He landed almost perfectly and drifted to a stop on a deserted runway. He jumped out of his jet and looked around. There was no lights or sounds from the other aircraft that had helped him. It was as if it had simply vanished into the night!

Donald had landed on an airfield that hadn’t been used since World War II, the only airfield within range of his depleted fuel supply. Michael, the great Archangel of God, had guided him there with the brilliant light of his great flaming sword.

The flight glove on the silver stand seemed so out of place. Another treasure, I thought, set on display like a rare exhibit.

“How often do miracles such as this happen to us?” I asked the angel.

“More often than you can imagine!” he replied.

“Did God manufacture this problem just so He could show Donald the love He had for him?”

“The answer to that question can only be found deep in the heart of the Almighty. Remember, your hearts are knit with His.

Perhaps someday as you seek His heart you will learn the answer.”

The angel then lifted his great and powerful arms up high. “The heart of the Almighty is as close as your own. Love Him. That is all He desires.”

Jim and Chip

Jim Hintz had lived in New York City all his life. His dedication to God was unwavering and unquestionable. Not a single day passed that he didn’t spend time in prayer and in private devotions with God.

He wasn’t a pastor or even a deacon: he was simply a dedicated member of the local Methodist church near his home. The soft tone of his voice and his quiet personality gave him the appearance being shy.

Today, as Jim rode the subway into town -- as he had every day for over twelve years -- he felt especially burdened, like a giant weight on his chest that would not go away. He began to pray silently, but the burden only increased.

If it could only wait another half-hour, he thought. I would be at work. Once at work there were several places that he could disappear to and pray. But it seemed like God could not wait.

What is it, my Lord?

Jim had communed with God long enough to know that sometimes one needs to wait patiently on God. If God wanted him to pray, then that is exactly what he would do, but God needed to tell him for what. The chrome-plated rod he clung to on the crowded train was becoming slippery from his perspiration. He recognized this as another indication that God was calling him.

Suddenly the face of a college friend came to mind. He recognized the man, Chip Slavin. Then, as real as life itself, he saw himself standing on a railroad track with a huge freight train bearing down on him.

Jim opened his eyes and looked around, shaken and almost expecting to see the train.

Chip is in trouble, he heard in his heart. Pray! Pray fervently for Chip!

Jim began to pray. Without realizing it, he was no longer praying silently. He was speaking just above a whisper.

Stop the train! The voice echoed through his mind. Stop the train!

Jim, still with eyes close, held a hand timidly out and spoke silently to the Lord.

No, Jim! Stop the train before he dies! The voice seemed to be shouting in his mind. Jim dropped his briefcase and threw both arms out in front of him as if holding shut a door.

“Stop!” He cried out loudly. “In Jesus’ name, you must not touch Chip!”

People began to move away from Jim. His eyes were closed but he could still feel their cold stares. He tried to concentrate on the voice of God and ignore the voices of the other passengers.

The image of the train continued to draw closer in his mind. Jim put out of his mind every distraction and concentrated solely on the train.

“I said stop in the name of Jesus Christ!” he cried out again. “Do not touch Chip for he is special to God!”

Suddenly the vision disappeared. The train was gone. Jim felt a moment of peace and then another vision appeared. A man was approaching holding a sword.

He means to kill Chip, the voice said. You must stop him. Once again Jim held out his hands and began to pray.

No, you must battle him. Jim, as though holding an invisible sword, began to swing his hand back and forth.

“Go back in Jesus name! You may not touch Chip!”

Then, as suddenly as the man had appeared, he was gone. Once again, Jim felt the peace of God. Before he could open his eyes, another vision appeared. A great storm surrounded him. Lightning and thunder clashed around about him.

Chip is surrounded! You must pray! You must pray with all your strength! An urgency in his soul came upon him the likes of which he had never felt before. Jim found a boldness and confidence that he had never known. He stretched his hand up into the air as high as he could. It no longer mattered to him what everyone was saying about him. He was obeying God and he knew it.

“Be gone, you storm!” Jim shouted. “Chip is precious in the sight of God. You must not touch him! Be gone!”

The train suddenly stopped. Jim opened his eyes and looked around. He was at his stop. The other passengers were all crammed into other end of the train. Jim smiled at the astounded crowd, picked up his briefcase, and stepped off the train.

In his heart was a peace he couldn’t explain. He had been obedient to God, and that was enough for him.

Jim never knew what significance his prayer had, and in time forgot about it altogether. He never knew what that selfless act had accomplished. He never understood why God had him abase himself on that crowded train. But he had been obedient.

Chip was saved five years after graduating from college. He then moved to Little Rock where he was married. Chip and his wife Gwen could not have children. They were content to dedicate themselves to the Lord’s work. After attending Bible school, they eventually become missionaries to Kenya.

Chip had lost track of his friends after finishing college and had all but forgotten an acquaintance named Jim Hintz. But he wasn’t worried about it: his passion was for the natives of the remote region in which he now lived.

He had settled in a remote valley that could be accessed only by riverboat. Together, he and Gwen had ministered with little success to a local tribe. With the help of a few stateside churches, he was able to build a two-room house. Though small, his house was significantly better than the huts occupied by the local people.

One night, bandits raided the village. This was not an extraordinary event. It was known to happen from time to time but usually closer to the more populated portions of the country.

Jim and Gwen were about to go to bed when they suddenly heard gunshots. A quick peek outside revealed the presence of armed gunman rummaging through the village.

They dashed to their bedroom and began to pray. They knew that if they were found they would lose more than just their lives. As they prayed, Jim heard the door open. Sweat poured down his face as he pleaded to God for mercy and safety. Then he heard a man scream in the next room and run out the door. He tried not to be distracted from his prayer.

Seconds later, the shutter of his bedroom window opened. Because of the mild climate there were no glass panes in the windows. Jim opened his eyes to see a gunman halfway through the window. But before he could respond, the man’s eyes became filled with fear, and he leaped backward out the window.

How peculiar, Jim thought.

As he approached the front door he heard several men outside the door scream and run away. He opened the door to find guns strewn about on the ground and six men running into the thick brush that surrounded the village.

Before long villagers began emerging from their huts. Many of them surrounded him, begging him to let them become Christians, too. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but he prayed with them nonetheless.

Before the night was over, six of the gunman returned without their weapons. Instead of terrorizing the village, they came to Chip’s home and asked what strange power he possessed. Chip didn’t understand the reasons for their questions, but he began to tell them about Jesus and about salvation. All six men gave their lives to God.

The next day both the bandits and the villagers began to ask about the guard who had protected him the night before. As Chip listened, they recounted the chilling events of the previous night.

The first man who tried to enter Chip’s home was confronted by a shining figure that came at him, arms outstretched, shouting, “Do not touch Chip for he is special to God!”

Chip was amazed. He had heard no such voice.

Another man had tried to enter through the back window, but he was confronted by another glowing figure that charged him swinging a sword. Chip remembered the man trying to enter though the window but not the sword-wielding figure.

Finally, the bandits had gathered at Chip’s front door. Without warning, a glowing figure walked right through the door into their midst! The figure reached upward with both hands and lightning discharged from his hands, shooting up into the sky. At that point, the bandits decided they had seen enough. They dropped their weapons and ran away screaming.

The villagers who had witnessed the event were afraid to come out of their huts at first. It wasn’t until they saw Chip open the door that they realized the glowing figure had been sent to protect him. Then they knew that Chip was a powerful man of God.

The people who accepted salvation that night became a core group of believers. From that group a small Bible school grew, producing dozens of native pastors in the following years. The native pastors, in turn, spawned dozens of churches.

Neither Chip nor Jim ever learned about how their individual faith and dedication to God came together that night. It remained just one of many such unexplainable mysteries of God.

I gazed at the simple candle that burned on the silver stand. There was no artifact to commemorate that miraculous night. There was only this candle burning before the Lord, a memorial to all of creation of what simple obedience can accomplish.

I smiled as I thought about the little known missionary in that sparsely populated African village. Who else but God would have been mindful of his needs that night? Who else but God?

Brenda and Amber

Brenda and Amber were small capricious girls with perpetual smiles who attended my church on a regular basis. Amber was the younger of the two. Her braided pigtails flapped as she bounded about seemingly lost in her own little world. She was every bit the tranquil fragile flower that her small frame presented.

Less energetic Brenda was far more aware of the large world that enveloped them. She was the protective older sister, a product of a broken home, who kept a watchful eye on her younger sibling. I feared that she was destined to grow up far too quickly.

Their mother, Rita, was a loving, compassionate, and unobtrusive woman of very limited means who also nursed her crippled mother without grievance or protest. Consequently, as one might expect, they lived in an unadorned little home with only the most rudimentary features. Nevertheless, to them it was home.

They may have been simple, but they were as consistent as spring rain: I could always count on seeing this family sitting in the back of the church for they never missed a service. And not a service passed that I did not observe Rita weeping and pouring out her heart before God while her mother sat nearby praising God with an open heart. This is just the sort, I imagined, that would have received Jesus when he dwelt among us. They were not the proud Pharisees who could not distinguish between a man’s purse and his heart. They were just people who loved God and possessed His eternal spirit.

I lived in a trailer on the church property and was therefore responsible for accepting all calls day or night. This afforded me the opportunity to pray for the distressed and minister to the lost. Every day seemed to bring new adventures.

One uneventful Saturday afternoon an old station wagon pulled up to my trailer. As I sat by the window I could clearly see Rita driving. I stepped onto the patio to greet them, but my smile quickly faded when I heard sobs emanating from the sputtering vehicle.

I rushed down to the car full of apprehension as to what tragic event could be troubling this sweet family. Rita grabbed my hands and cried, “You must help us, Brother Ron! You must pray for Ralph!”

Her voice echoed the desperation I could see in the tear-stained eyes of her children. They both sat on the back seat clinging tightly to a small dog. The dog, Ralph, was clearly a beloved family pet, a member of the family, and he was in trouble. He wore a muzzle and growled the entire time.

“He has distemper, and the vet says he must be put to sleep,” Rita’s voice trembled slightly, exposing her fear though she tried desperately to conceal it.

I was moved with compassion. I understood then how Jesus could be so genuinely touched by the trepidation of the crowd. Out of reflex, without thought or hesitation, I pressed forward and sat on the back seat near the two children. I picked up the small dog and cradled it in my arms while the dog continued to growl and fight against me.

“Jesus,” I prayed. My voice trembled, and my eyes swelled with tears. I was overcome by their sorrow! “Jesus, please heal this dog of distemper!”

Such a simple prayer, I thought, but that is all I had the strength to say. Normally I would have preferred to say something more eloquent.

Ralph relaxed in my arms and stopped growling. Surprised, I looked down at him. I removed the muzzle and the dog began to lick my face. I could feel my body tense as my I held my tears back. The dog settled down on my lap and gently licked Brenda’s foot. He was healed!

The family was overcome with thanksgiving, and we all just stood together and cried. God was there that Saturday afternoon, watching over the hearts of two unimportant little girls who were at that moment of utmost importance to Him.

Once again I stood speechless. I tenderly twisted the little collar in my hand and caressed the name engraved in the dog license: Ralph.

Amanda

I looked down at the hospital identification bracelet on the next silver stand. There was nothing especially noteworthy about the tiny bracelet. It was just a clear plastic strip that I’ve seen a hundred times from a dozen different hospitals. But that was until I noticed the name typed within the strip. It seemed to leap out at me.

“Amanda!”

Seeing the name on that bracelet brought back a hundred memories of a time long ago, of a little girl I had not seen in over twenty years.

Amanda was only nine months old when I met her. She was the only child of a young Latino couple. I was only nineteen at the time, assistant pastor of a growing church in the northeast. It seems amusing now, but at the time I did not consider myself young. But I was young. And inexperienced. As I have contemplated the events of those early years, I have often wondered if they were used to mature me or to mature the people to whom I ministered.

Eileen was a high school English teacher. She often used the church before services to teach English to Latin Americans who lived in the community. I knew of her and was only vaguely aware of her outreach. Many times I observed her teaching without ever becoming involved. That was about to change.

One Sunday night Eileen came to see me after the evening service. She wanted me to drive her and a young family to the Medical Center in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I agreed without question.

A few days later I picked up Eileen, the young couple, and their baby at the church to begin what promised to be an all day affair at the Medical Center. The moment I laid eyes on little Amanda, I knew how serious today was going to be. She was a beautiful little baby girl except for one little flaw: huge bulging lumps covered her hairless little head. Her brain was completely covered with tumors, and they were spreading in rapid succession.

My heart went out to her. I wanted to do something, but I felt so inadequate. I did not have to be a doctor to know that she was dying.

During the long drive to Ann Arbor, the Lord had plenty of time to deal with my heart. I knew that before the day was over I would be expected to pray for her healing, but I had never prayed for someone in such a desperate plight. When life and death hangs in the balance, you expect the best – nothing else would do. So where was God’s prophet? This child needed a great man of God. She needed a man of faith, a man of prayer, a man whom God respected, certainly not someone ordinary like me. I was afraid of my own inadequacies. Surely God had other plans. What good could possibly come from my prayers?

We eventually arrived at the hospital, and so began a steady stream of tests, an endless barrage of questions from doctors, nurses, and medical technicians. Eileen worked as a translator while I stood in the background listening. It was so clinical. There was no mention or thought of God in any of their discussions. Desperately I hoped for a private time that would allow me to pray for the child apart from the skeptical glares of the medical staff.

Better yet, perhaps God would send His man of faith to pray for the child and deliver me from the embarrassment of failing Him.

I was ashamed and I knew it. It is still difficult to admit. I had thoroughly convinced myself that the doctors and technicians did not believe in miracles, so shame prevented me from praying openly in front of them. I could see mockery in their eyes each time I envisioned myself praying for her.

So I waited. . . and waited. . . and waited. Each minute that passed was like adding a brick to a wall that grew taller and taller. The private time I so desperately wanted never came.

As the day slowly drew to a close my body began to tremble with panic. I felt that if I were to leave there without praying for her, my heart would explode out of my chest. Then finally the torment was over. It was time to leave. The medical staff stood around, and Amanda was admitted for treatment.

Eileen nodded at me to go, but I found that I was rooted to the floor. I could not move, so I just stood there. After what seemed an eternity of indecision I took a deep breath, turned and walked over to the child. I placed both of my hands on the child’s head and prayed a simple prayer, “Father have mercy on this child.”

Suddenly I no longer cared who was listening. “You are the only One who can help this child. You are her only hope. Please heal her.”

As I stood there besieged by shame and doubt, I was unaware of the spiritual realm enveloping us. I could not see the angels. I was unaware of the Spirit of God who was there, listening and waiting to show His glory. I was unaware of the demons of cancer who trembled as they held that child’s fate in their hands.

The room was completely silent as I turned to leave. I made every effort to avoid the eyes of the medical staff and left with my head held low.

The day had been a sobering experience. All of us were weak and weary as we journeyed home. There was very little conversation as we each replayed the events of that day over and over again in our minds. All I knew was that I never wanted to go through that again.

Months passed, and I decidedly avoided asking Eileen about the baby. Inwardly I wondered if she had died. Finally, my curiosity could no longer be denied, and I approached Eileen about the baby. She thought for a moment as if trying to remember about whom I was inquiring. Then her face lit up.

“Didn’t I tell you?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, my face flushed in anticipation.

“When Amanda woke up the next morning the tumors were gone! There was no trace of cancer, nor was there any indication that she had ever had any! The doctors called it a miracle and released her the same day!”

I wept at the news and found myself ashamed at my shame. I knew that her healing came about by God’s grace and certainly not from my faith. Why did I ever allow myself to be concerned with what people thought? Why did I ever doubt the power and love of God?

I often think about that long day so many years ago, and I recognize the concern that I had for Amanda. What is so painfully obvious to me now that I failed to realize then is just how very much God loved her.

The angel smiled. “You have figured it out, haven’t you?”

I looked at him quizzically, not answering.

“God had already decided to heal Amanda. You just happened to be the only vessel who was listening at the time.”

Ron

The summer of 1973 was quiet in the small Michigan community. Two city workers finished connecting a new section of water pipe to the existing city main, a pipe that was meant to provide water to homes that would be built along a new section of road.

As the two workers climbed out of the ten-foot hole, an invisible hand reached out and slowly turned the valve shut. Unaware that the new line no longer had a water source, the crew buried the pipes, and soon after, a road crew repaired the road that went over it.

Two years later a young man of sixteen stood in a ten-foot hole. He and his fellow construction workers were unaware that they were working only a block away from where the city had installed the new water line two years before. Nor did they care. All they were concerned about was finding that new water line and connecting the home they had built to it.

The hole was steep and narrow. Ron had barely enough room to stand next to the large bucket of the backhoe down there with him. Each time the backhoe dug up some earth, Ron used a shovel to search for the water line. The process was painstakingly slow and tedious.

Ron’s mind wasn’t on his work either. Just two days before, he had experienced a dramatic touch from God. He was filled with such effervescence that even now later he still couldn’t stop praying.

Ron watch as the big bucket passed down just a few inches in front of him. He wasn’t aware of the danger he faced if the pipe for which they searched was damaged. The larger four-inch line contained sixty pounds of pressure, which, if broken, would shoot a jet of water into the hole, causing its collapse within seconds. There would be no way to escape or to rescue him without first turning off the water. And the valve to do that was a block away under a road and ten feet of dirt.

As the bucket began to lift, Ron heard a snap and the sound of metal grinding.

“Stop!” Ron shouted.

He squeezed under the bucket and began to brush the dirt away. His efforts exposed a broken and twisted section of city pipe with only a small trickle of water draining from it.

“We broke the pipe!” Ron shouted to the men above.

“Quick, get out of there!” the plumber shouted back, reaching down into the hole to pull him out.

Ron didn’t understand what all the panic was about. It was the pipe that was damaged, not he. He watched as the bucket of the backhoe was removed from the hole, revealing a contorted broken pipe sticking out of the bottom of the hole.

The plumber turned to Ron with a very grim look on his face. “You’re very lucky,” he shook his head. “Had there been water in that line, you would be dead.”

It was an unexplainable event to everyone there. Why would the city install a new section of their water main and then never turn it on?

The next day as the city workers began to tear the road up, Ron stood at the edge of the hole. He realized that a miracle had happened that saved his life. It wasn’t just from the hand of an angel, it was a miracle in time itself.

Ron looked up into the sky and said a quiet prayer of thanks to the Lord. God had saved his life two years before it was in danger. He knew he served a God of infinite power, ultimate wisdom, and of such greatness that time itself could not contain Him. Yet such a God took the time to consider the life of this sixteen-year-old young man.

I could barely see. My body trembled as I fought back the sobs. There on the silver stand before me was a six-inch section of the broken pipe, the same pipe that had nearly cost me my life twenty-four years ago. It was my life that was spared that day. God did that for me! He did it just for one.

The Gift

“There’s more.” The angel motioned for me to follow.

It was then that I noticed another door at the opposite end of the room. I followed the angel through the doorway and found myself standing in an immense room. Silver stands, each holding a small item, filled the room. There had to be millions of stands! I glanced to my right and to my left. I could see no end in either direction.

“Are these...?” I started, but my voice trailed off as the impact of what I was seeing set in. Each of these stands would represent but a single event, a single miracle in the lives of so many of God’s people.

“God saved a memento of each miracle that he done for His people?” I asked.

“Not every miracle,” the angel corrected. “Not even heaven could contain enough space for that! These are memorials of but single acts of your Lord’s compassion. These memorials are the treasures of His heart. They express a bond that you share with Him that no angel can know: a bond of the heart.”

The angel then turned and walked away without saying another word. I continued to stand there for a moment, overwhelmed by everything I had seen. Eventually, I tore myself away to follow in the angel’s direction. When I finally caught up, a mist began to form around us, becoming more and more dense as we proceeded forward. Before long, it grew so thick that I could no longer see the floor in front of me.

The angel stopped suddenly, standing still and silent. At this point I didn’t know what to expect so I stood near the angel and waited. As I stared into the mist it slowly began to lift, and a great white throne emerged. It grew in brilliance and clarity almost as if its shear glory was driving away the mist.

Then a grotesque and hideous creature stepped out of the mist and strutted up to the throne. It was fire engine red and covered with scales. The creature had a long slender tail that thrashed about as well as two long horns that protruded from its forehead. On its back were bat-like wings that gave it an evil appearance. I knew it had to be the devil.

The creature suddenly wheeled about and shook a long accusing finger in my face. It happened so quickly that I flinched.

“Him!” The creature roared. “He’s broken your law and is guilty of sin.”

I wasn’t prepared for this. I shuffled about like an animal looking for a place to hide. Suddenly, I realized that I was standing completely naked. Ashamed, I tried to hide myself as I was forced to listen while the creature swaggered about recalling aloud every sin I had ever committed. Somehow listening to his description of my deeds made them seem much so much worse than I remembered it. I had always thought of myself as being a good moral person, but the actions he described were not the deeds of a righteous man.

“He’s GUILTY!” the creature hissed. “He deserves nothing less than DEATH! Your law DEMANDS it!”

Suddenly the ground began to tremble under my feet. Then it ripped apart next to me, and fire lapped up from the crevice. Still not understanding what was happening, I dropped to my knees.

“Have mercy on me!” I cried.

I buried my face in my hands and waited for my judgment to come. However, there was only silence. I lifted my head and wiped my tear-filled eyes. Before me hung a beaten and bloody man nailed to a crudely assembled cross.

I knew at once that he was the Son of God, but I was not prepared for the gruesome spectacle. I had seen many artist renditions of the crucifixion which had always portrayed the Lord with such dignity. But there was no dignity in the visage of brutality that stood before me.

He hung completely naked, and every part of his body was covered with long wide gaping lacerations. This man had endured hours of merciless beatings. Blood had coagulated into large crusty masses. And it stank! The whole sight was so repulsive that I had to look away. This wasn’t the God-man of the pictures who hung so peacefully. This man seemed to be struggling just to stay alive.

Then a loud deep voice seemed to echo everywhere, a voice of such power that I knew it was from God: “The evil of your soul cries out for judgment. The penalty for your crimes is death.”

What could I say? I knew where all this was going. God had allowed me to see the terrible cost that the Son of God had to pay for my sin. I was astonished, speechless, and utterly ashamed. I couldn’t look up any longer.

Then another voice spoke, a voice so quiet that it was just barely auible. It came from the Son of God.

“Let me be punished for all his crimes. I will die in his place.”

I didn’t look up. My shame could not be put into words. Seeing what my disobedience had cost the Son of God was beyond comprehension.

The creature sauntered in my direction and scoffed. “You’d die for this pathetic excuse for a living soul?”

There was a moment of silence, but then I heard the sweetest word I think I shall ever hear. “Yes.”

Tears streamed down my face. I looked up in time to see the Son of God take his last breath. With that final breath, He said something I will never forget:

“I’d do it just for Ron. I’d do it... just for one.”