Further Glimpses of God’s Grace and Greatness
One of the great delights of researching and writing a book on miracles is hearing from so many who know without doubt that God intervened in their lives. When we put out a call for these experiences, we received stacks more than we could include here. Poring over each story, we were astonished at the frequency and the variety with which God demonstrates his power.
As it was difficult to decide on the stories to feature among so many, we’d like at least to present several more in brief—even more confirmation that God participates in his children’s lives regularly and remarkably.
Miracle on Jefferson Street
When I was pastor of a Phoenix church, our members collected thirty-five blankets to give to homeless individuals. What began as a simple service project turned into a bona fide miracle.
On December 22, 1994, the air was crisp and getting colder, so as I traveled on I-17 in the church van, I asked God to make those thirty-five blankets warmer than ever and to be received by those who needed them most. Arriving where I knew homeless people congregated, I saw about ten people a block away, huddled around an open fire in a barrel. I turned the van and cautiously approached.
“Would you like a blanket to keep warm tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah!” was the response from one man as he made his way toward me. I handed him a blanket, and he expressed his gratitude. Then there was another hand by the window, and I turned for another blanket. Next three hands clamored, and I turned to get the blankets. Soon the crowd of ten had swelled to a mob. There were too many hands to count, and the van was surrounded. Admittedly, I was glad I had all the doors locked.
Suddenly I thought, I don’t have enough for everyone. Panic began to set in. But I could feel something all around me, a clear sense of God’s presence. Peace displaced the panic.
“I’m new to the streets. Can I please have a blanket?” This was a voice so tender and sweet it caused me to turn toward it. The request was from a woman who looked out of place amid the backdrop of the reaching hands.
Before I could respond, a man’s deep voice said, “Please give her one. She really needs it.” Her hands were not reaching as the others were, for they were tight across her chest to keep warm.
I remember thinking that the light jacket she had was not going to keep her warm through the colder nights. I wished I had a coat to give her. I handed her the last new blanket, still in its packaging from the manufacturer.
“May I have a new blanket too?” asked a tall man with a beard badly in need of a trim. Desperation filled his eyes, and I said, “Brother, I really wish I had some more new ones to give you, but that was the last new blanket.”
As I said the word blanket, the words of Jesus came to mind: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). I remember thinking, This man is Jesus. That woman is Jesus.
As I turned for an old blanket, obviously used and worn, I saw to my surprise two new blankets on the floor. As I picked them up, it dawned on me that those new ones hadn’t been there before. I’d given them all out—I was sure of it. Again I turned for more old blankets, and now there were two more new ones in the same spot. This happened several times: I’d reach for old blankets only to find additional new ones.
Moisture began to form in my eyes. A blink released the tears down my cheeks. I tried to hide my emotion from the unknowing crowd, but knew I was unsuccessful when a man in tattered clothes asked, “Sir, are you all right?”
I quickly said, “Couldn’t be better” as a smile crossed my face.
With the last hand awaiting a blanket, I gave out the last one. I started with thirty-five blankets and I gave out at least fifty. And I know how.
As I put the van in gear I heard several people say, “God bless you, mister.” Humbled in the presence of God, I replied, “He already did.”
Driving back to the church, I said to myself, It wasn’t Miracle on 34th Street, but it was a miracle on Jefferson Avenue. I thought of Jesus feeding the five thousand, and I thought of Jesus “blanketing” the fifty. What a profound joy to participate in a miracle.
—James Taylor, Norman, Oklahoma
Battered but Not Bruised
Visiting Atlanta for a convention in October 2002, I arranged to meet several acquaintances at a downtown restaurant one evening. The weather was crisp and pleasant, so I decided to walk the half mile—which soon turned into a mile, and then another, as I became confused and then hopelessly lost.
I found myself in a run-down area. I looked for a taxi but didn’t see one. I called the restaurant for directions and realized it was a long trek back—I was already late, the sky was nearly dark, and the streets were practically deserted. Frustration at my lousy planning rapidly turned to fear. I quickened my pace.
As I passed a shadowy alley, three men—tough-looking, smelling of booze and more—leapt out and grabbed me, shoved me against a wall, and demanded my wallet. Not about to argue, I reached into my coat pocket, but they must have thought I had a weapon. One, brandishing a bat, proceeded to wind up and belt the back of my head three times.
I crumpled like a rag doll as they crowded over me. I expected searing pain or a fade to black. But I felt only alert and pain-free. Then I thought I must be going on adrenaline and soon would be unconscious. Wrong again.
I played possum as the muggers rummaged and took my wallet, phone, and watch. I was glad to let them have the stuff so long as they left. A moment later they turned and sprinted away.
Waiting to make sure they wouldn’t return, I sat up warily, gingerly. Shouldn’t I be harmed, if not dead? Shouldn’t I have a concussion, or at least a headache? I felt perfectly normal. I touched the back of my head, all over, and didn’t even find a bruise.
I flew home to Tallahassee the next morning and immediately went to my doctor, explaining the attack in detail. He checked me out carefully and found nothing wrong. Precautionary X-rays came back clean.
The thugs who robbed me got a few hundred dollars’ worth of valuables, but I got something priceless: the assurance that God does intervene in this sick, broken world. Specifically, he intervenes in the lives of sick, broken people and those affected by sick, broken people.
I have no doubt I received a miracle. Why me? Why was I protected when most people who are assaulted suffer terrible consequences? I’ve asked that many times, and I have no answer. I can’t explain it. I can only say with humbleness, “Thank you, God. Thank you for protecting me.”
—Joseph Cendejas, Tallahassee, Florida
Voice of Caution
As pastor of a church in southwestern Michigan, I encountered a miraculous experience one foggy Easter morning on my way to sunrise service. As I approached a curve in the road, I heard a man’s voice say unmistakably, “Slow down.” It was so real and clear that I actually responded by answering “Okay” and lifting my foot off the accelerator.
Chuckling at the unusual experience, I began once more to speed up. The voice spoke again, this time with more intensity: “No. Keep slowing down.”
I took my foot completely off the gas as the car continued to decelerate. As I rounded the corner, my headlights illuminated through the fog a tottering elderly man crossing the road, headed for his mailbox. Had I continued at the same speed as before “the voice” spoke, the old gentleman would have been square in the middle of my lane when I got there.
He’d just reached the shoulder when I passed. At that same moment an oncoming van passed, cutting off any escape route had I needed to swerve left to save the man. Had I swerved right I’d have crashed into a large oak tree.
With shaking knees, I thanked God for a miraculous preservation of at least one precious life and perhaps more. It may seem a relatively “small” incident of divine intervention, but it had big implications for those involved.
—Clark Cothern, Ypsilanti, Michigan
From Sorrow to Solace
My husband, Snow, died at a football game, enjoying the action on the field one minute, gone to be with the Lord the next. We’d been sitting on the fifty-yard line, watching with interest, when suddenly, softly, he called my name and then leaned over to lie across the stadium seats.
In just moments his eyes rolled back, and I could see nothing but white on the back of his eyeballs. Out of the crowd came our own family doctor, who’d been nearby, as well as EMS-trained people, nurses, and other medical personnel. They tried to revive Snow via mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, heart massage, and defibrillation. Unsuccessful, they raced him away in the ambulance kept on-site for possible football-related injuries.
At age forty-nine he’d had a massive heart attack. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. We went home that night without him.
Some family members slept in my room. I climbed under the covers with my daughter, Patsy, who was asleep in her white canopy bed. A soft light shined from the hallway.
When I closed my eyes I began my usual prayer of thanks for the day. As I silently began, “Dear Lord,” I felt a hand before my eyes and heard—or sensed—a voice that said, “No.”
Startled, I opened my eyes. “Patsy,” I said aloud, “are you playing a joke on me?” She was breathing deeply and obviously asleep.
I closed my eyes again, thinking, Of course I shouldn’t pray as usual tonight. It’s the darkest day of my life. I need more honest, sincere words than my bedtime prayer.
I started again, this time mustering all the courage I had to invoke the Spirit of God: “Almighty God!” Again I felt the hand across my face and a “No” that resounded through my spirit.
I opened my eyes once more. No one. Nothing there.
Upset, I prayed, “Lord, you can’t desert me tonight. I need you more than ever. You must help me tonight. I need you.” Then I tentatively began, “Dear God, please assure me that Snow is right there with you.”
My spirit opened, and I felt the presence of both God and Snow. I knew for sure my husband was in heaven—no doubt remained. What a reassurance for a wife and mother of two teenagers that she could make it through the rest of her life without her solid-rock husband. He was with his heavenly Father, and I knew absolutely that he was alive and well.
After Snow’s funeral, his best friend, Allen, and his family came home with us. Amid the hubbub of welcoming guests and preparing snacks in the kitchen, he drew me aside. “Something unusual happened to me today,” he said. “At the graveside I looked down at a baby’s headstone nearby with a little lamb on top of it. It reminded me of Craig.”
Allen and Dianne had lost their three-year-old son in a freak accident the first day Allen had been with the child after his wife had returned to work. Both of these grief-stricken but believing parents had handled the child’s death well, as far as I knew, yet Allen told another story. He said that after Craig died he was plagued by the fear that when he got to heaven his son would greet him with the words: “Where were you, Daddy, when I needed you? You were there a few minutes before, but when I was in distress, why didn’t you see me? Why didn’t you rescue me?”
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I decided I couldn’t face Craig. I couldn’t handle the hurt and disappointment in his eyes because his daddy let him down. After that I turned my back on God, doing anything I could to make him refuse my entrance into heaven.”
“I’m so sorry, Allen,” I said.
“But today something happened. As I looked at the lamb headstone and thought of my precious Craig, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was a pallbearer who knew how close I was to Snow, I turned to say ‘I’m okay. I’ll be all right.’ To my surprise, no one was there. In fact, no one was within ten or twelve feet of me!”
He smiled and looked me in the eye. “Edna, I heard Snow! I’m not going to tell anyone else because they’ll think I’m crazy, but I know I heard him. I know his voice. It was him! Snow said to me, ‘You can come on home, Allen, anytime you want to. Don’t be afraid of heaven or facing Craig. I’ve already straightened that out. Everything is all right now.’ Then he was gone.”
A moment later he added, “I had to tell you what Snow said. He’s alive. He’s in heaven.”
“I know,” I said. “I already know.”
Assurance about heaven may come in unusual ways. God can use such incidents to bring us comfort and confidence about the world beyond this one.
—Edna Ellison, Spartanburg, South Carolina
Prepare for Impact
For my seventeenth birthday in 1971, my parents bought me my first car—a powder blue 1963 Oldsmobile F-85. I sure was proud. I washed and waxed it every Saturday morning.
One summer afternoon I drove away from my home in the Cincinnati suburb of Norwood. I’d just gotten a green light and was turning left off Worth Avenue onto Rhode Island Street, when I noticed a car coming from my left. I assumed he would stop for the red. He didn’t.
Maybe he was changing radio stations. I really don’t know. Regardless, he was speeding through the light on a no-miss, T-bone collision course. It was not only a possibility but a certainty that the front of his car would slam into my driver’s-side door.
My experiences over the years have taught me that people tend to use the word miracle too loosely. But I was there, and miracle is the only word fit to use. Only the hand of God could have prevented that sure catastrophe.
The other car literally passed through mine like Casper the friendly ghost passes through walls. As it did, the other driver, ostensibly a boy about my age, turned, and our eyes met. His face was no more than eighteen inches from mine, and I’ll never forget his look of complete shock. I must have appeared the same way to him.
In this instant, time seemed to slow considerably. Immediately afterward both of us stopped, got out, and stood, just staring at each other. If I knew who he was and where to find him—I don’t know whatever became of him—he would tell you the same.
After a few moments I got back into my car and drove two blocks to a Sohio gas station. I pulled in and parked, sitting in stunned silence, trying to grasp what had happened. I’d been raised in church, and I realized I’d just experienced divine intervention.
As I got out and examined my car, I knew what had occurred, yet many years went by before I ever told anyone. I was truly amazed by the magnitude of the event, but I figured people would think I was being sensationalistic.
In time I became a Southern Baptist clergyman, and I’ve shared this from the pulpit with two different congregations. Some have nodded in polite disbelief; there were others who hoped it was true but simply could not accept it. Humanly speaking they’re correct, yet, as Jesus said, “with God all things are possible” (Mark 10:27). Several people from both churches came up to me afterward, said they believed it, and then proceeded to share miracle stories of their own. I believed every one of them because I know what happened to me one day in Cincinnati long ago.
—Victor Cooper, Bokeelia, Florida
The Boy Beneath a Bus
On May 6, 2011, our family experienced the single worst day of our lives. Unexpectedly, it also ended as our most miraculous day.
That Friday morning began like any other school day: hurrying to get the kids ready and out the door to the bus. On school mornings, Rachel is not only Mom but also bus driver of a local route for Union Grove Christian School. Our three oldest children, Stanley, Angela, and Torrey, ride the bus with Mom each day.
At 7:40, when the bus stopped at the drop-off spot, the children filed off as usual. The older children headed directly into the school building while the younger ones crossed in front of the bus to a coned area to wait for the bell. Torrey, age six, also stepped off and walked. But instead of going straight over to the coned area, he unexpectedly crouched, apparently pretending to be a favorite movie character (as he’s known to do). In that position, Torrey was hidden from sight and did not notice that the bus had begun to move forward.
At this moment, Angela saw what was happening and realized Mom could not see Torrey. She yelled for him to lie down so the bus would pass over him. This moment was the first miracle—Angela’s urgent instruction alerted Torrey to what was happening. He managed to get down as the bus moved over him. A moment later, when he saw the opening between the front and back wheels, he tried to scramble to safety. Unable to move fast enough, the double rear wheels ran over the entire midsection of his thin little body. School buses typically weigh around 25,000 pounds, and this was on top of a boy weighing sixty.
Feeling the unexpected bump, Rachel stopped immediately. Running to the front of the bus, she saw Torrey lying beneath the rear wheels. She rushed inside the building to get someone to call 9–1–1. Immediately, people hurried to help and pushed the bus off Torrey.
Parents, staff, and children began to pray. The drop-off became a sort of “ground zero” for our family, friends, and school community.
Soon, Torrey regained consciousness. He suffered major lacerations and bruising, two broken collarbones, a chipped hip bone, four broken ribs, and broken blood vessels in his eyes and face. Still, he was conscious for the entire ambulance ride and life flight to Children’s Hospital in Milwaukee.
The hours that followed were filled with tears, prayers, meetings with surgeons, hugs from family and friends, emergency surgery, and more prayers. Even as we traveled to one hospital and then followed the helicopter to the next, we were overwhelmed with the prayers and love of God’s family. We began to receive calls and messages from people around the globe who dropped what they were doing to gather together in prayer for our little boy. We believe it is those prayers that made all the difference. Torrey’s injuries had been lessened by his backpack, which absorbed much of the tires’ pressure. Amazingly, no major organs were damaged.
After eight days in the hospital, Torrey was released with not so much as a cast or a bandage. His bones healed so quickly that the breaks were hard to detect at his next doctor appointment. A week and a half after the accident, he was able to visit his class at school. After missing only two weeks, he rejoined his class for the rest of the school year.
The emotional toll on a child his age is also a big concern. Eventually, Torrey was able to say, “It’s not that I wanted to be run over, but I know God wanted lots of people to hear about Jesus and how to be saved.” He has no lasting effect from the accident except a heightened knowledge of how big our God is. Truly we serve an awesome God!
—Josh and Rachel Steele, Union Grove, Wisconsin
An Open-and-Closed Case
I serve as a chaplain at the City of Hope National Medical Center. In April 2010, I received an urgent page: A woman in the surgical waiting area asked that I come and pray with her as soon as possible.
Arriving a few minutes later, I recognized the woman, who was there with her college-age daughter. We had talked before, during one of her cancer-stricken husband’s previous admissions.
They were devout Christians, but she was very nervous about this potentially dangerous procedure. She explained that he was already in surgery. Would I please pray with them right now?
I said I’d be more than happy to, and amid several others in the waiting room, we formed a “circle of love” and joined hands and hearts as I briefly led them in asking God to guide the surgeon, protect her husband, and comfort them as they waited. I gave them my card and asked them to keep me posted.
The next morning I got a call from the wife. All she could say was, “It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!” She was so excited I could hardly get any more information. I asked if her husband had been moved to the ICU, as is protocol, and she said yes.
Walking into the man’s room later that day, I saw him sitting up and looking remarkably good for just having had major cancer surgery. He immediately said, with a huge smile, “It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!”
Still not sure what had happened, I asked him to explain. He told me the surgeon had gone into the OR, where he was already sedated and prepped, with CT scans clearly showing the tumors to be removed. However, when the surgeon opened him up, not one tumor was present. There was no sign of them even though the evidence was right there on the scans!
Not knowing what else to do, the surgeon closed the incision and sent him to recovery. Later, meeting with the patient and his family, he said, “Well, the chemotherapy agent was continuing to work, and it must have completely reduced the tumors to nothing.” That was the only human explanation the doctor could find for this miracle of God’s grace.
The family and I shared a celebration and wonderful time of prayer and praising God. I left marveling at his healing grace.
—Terry Irish, Glendora, California
Lifeguard on Duty
When I was eight my mom took us kids to the beach for a day. I couldn’t swim so she told me to wade but stay where she could see me. It didn’t take long for me to wander all the way out into the fishing area. Somehow the large pier drew me to it, far out of Mom’s view.
A man was there, wearing rubber waders, holding a big fishing pole. His big tackle box sat nearby on the shore. I said I must have walked too far by accident, and he told me to go back because my mom was worried about me.
He was right. Mom was very upset and set closer boundaries.
So I went back in to splash around the same wading area. Nothing new—until the sand beneath my feet disappeared. I’d fallen into a huge hole, unseen under the surface.
I thrashed and gulped seawater. As I struggled, I discovered that moving my arms down in unison propelled me to the top for air.
I yelled for help, and Mom rushed to me. But every time she got near she also fell into the hole. She cried out, “God, help me!”
Right then the fisherman I’d met earlier reached out and grabbed me. He handed me over to my mom. After she embraced me she turned to thank him . . . but he was gone. In a moment. We never found him to thank him.
I’m convinced he was an angel. How else could he arrive and vanish so instantly? Why did he appear right after Mom’s prayer? Why couldn’t we find him after he rescued me? I’ll find out the answers someday in heaven.
—John Wastlund, Osawatomie, Kansas
You Snooze, You . . . Win
In July 2006, I cruised home in my old ’84 Corvette to La Mesa, California, from a lot I own near Julian. It was warm. The radio played. The engine’s hum and the wind’s white noise were rhythmic and hypnotic. There was nobody anywhere near me on Highway 8 eastbound. I’m embarrassed to admit I nodded off.
Coming down the grade from Alpine into El Cajon, I woke to a crash and a jolt, behind the wheel, still doing over 70 mph. I had changed lanes and smacked into an ambulance right beside me.
I don’t know how many seconds I was out, but I do know that not one other vehicle was in sight on that stretch. What’s more, to the right of my car was a sheer rock face; to the left was a sharp drop-off onto oncoming lanes. The ambulance “appeared” and served as a guardrail to keep me from wrecking.
No doubt God had intervened to save my life. I was convinced, but I also realized it would sound farfetched when I described it. I’m embarrassed (again!) to admit I lied to my wife, Traci, about the accident. I told her my car and the ambulance had merged into the same lane at the same time. The minimal damage to my car was covered by insurance. It’s still on my driving record.
That was the end of it—until Traci started having a dream. Though she’d never before dreamed that God himself was talking to her, she now dreamed (the same thing three times before she told me) that God was saying he was helping her in dramatic fashion and yet she wasn’t grateful for it.
As she told me the dream, I immediately felt convicted. I confessed that I believed God had saved my life a few weeks earlier by placing an ambulance (of all vehicles) between me and a high-speed death. It all made sense.
By this I also learned that I am not the star in this play; Traci is. I’m a player put here to help my wife and family, not the other way around. God came to her, not to me, to convey what he had done and to get my attention. I am thrilled and humbled to receive his attention in any respect.
—Carl Hoppes, La Mesa, California
Financial Aid From the “Bank of Heaven”
At a church I pastored, a young couple attended with their four children, participating faithfully, tithing regularly. The man had a job in a local factory.
One evening they came to see me. They had purchased a house in the past year to meet their expanding family needs. They thought they’d checked out all the costs involved before committing. However, to their shock, an unforeseen assessment had just been levied on their property for $2,000, due within the month. They didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know either. I had less than $100 in my discretionary account. I said a prayer with them, asking God to provide.
A couple of days later, I received a call from a wealthy member who said he wanted to catch up on his tithe. He explained that he hadn’t fully tithed the past few years while paying his children’s way through college. He intended to make a donation of $10,000!
Right before the Sunday service, he walked in and said, “As I was writing out the check, it occurred to me that you might like part of this to go into your discretionary fund. Would that be all right?”
I assured him it would be appreciated. He handed me a check for $2,000.
I could hardly wait for the service to end. When it did, I grabbed the couple and led them into a side room. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “I have the money for you.” I explained that someone had given me the exact amount they needed.
Needless to say they were overjoyed. And while I never told the donor who they were, he likewise was overjoyed to know that God had used him to bless a Christian family in need.
—Richard Blank, Onsted, Michigan
Gone Without a Trace
Our son Luke was a four-year-old boy who loved sports, with two older brothers to play with. In June of 2011, Luke had a suspicious “bump” come up on his right temple. We thought that the bump had resulted from smacking his head on something. Like many active boys, Luke often banged into things around the house as he played ball or goofed off.
We monitored the bump for a few days, and the swelling didn’t go down. We took Luke to his pediatrician, who thought it might be a cyst. Over the next few weeks, the bump began to grow rapidly, around one centimeter per week. In July, the pediatrician sent us to a surgeon at Nemours Children’s Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida.
The surgeon also thought Luke had a cyst. She wanted to watch it for the next three weeks to see if the cyst would go away naturally. Because it was between the skull and cranium, we all hoped the body would absorb it instead of having to go through surgery to remove it. But at the end of the three weeks, the bump had hardened. Tests were ordered, including a CT scan. The results were distressing: The scan suggested that Luke had Langerhans Cell Histiocytosis (LCH), a rare disease affecting only five out of every one million children. We were immediately referred to an oncologist, who ordered another CT scan, an MRI, X-rays, skeletal survey, and blood work.
All of the tests confirmed the diagnosis of LCH. The oncologist and a neurosurgeon explained that Luke had a tumor on his skull that was attacking his body. It had eaten an inch-long hole through his skull to his brain. There was no sign that the brain had been affected, but we wouldn’t know for sure until surgery. The surgeon was going to remove the tumor and repair his skull with a type of calcium deposit or a metal plate. A plate was preferred because of the width of the hole in the skull. When we asked if it were possible for the bone to grow back on its own, the surgeon said no. Surgery was set for November 2, 2011, and thereafter Luke would face a minimum of six months of chemotherapy.
After hearing the devastating news, we returned home. Luke was brave, and he prayed each day for God to “heal my bump.” Over the next few weeks, Luke became sick, developing a fever. He was on multiple antibiotics to try to get his body stable enough to perform the surgery. Luke also complained of minor aches and pains in his legs and stomach.
A week and a half before surgery, a second bump appeared about two inches from the first bump. We immediately called the doctor, who said there was no need to put Luke through the testing again at this point. He said he would look at it when Luke came in for surgery. He would resect it and repair the skull in that place as well, if necessary.
The morning of November 2, 2011, we drove to Wolfson Children’s Hospital in Jacksonville. Luke was called back to prep for surgery at 12:30. The neurosurgeon came in and talked with us about what would happen during surgery. He located the second bump and marked the intended places of incision on Luke’s head with a marker. The anesthesiologist came in and went over procedures and risks. Then the doctor excused himself for a few minutes. When he returned, he said the operating room was not yet available, so he would send Luke for another CT scan in order to get a better look at the second tumor. He said it would only take about ten minutes.
Luke went for his scan and returned to the prepping area. The anesthesiologist and OR nurse were waiting for us. The doctor reviewed the new CT scan and then excused himself to radiology again. When he returned, he placed scans taken in September and November side by side on the screen to compare the two. He showed us where the tumor was and where the skull had been destructed.
On the new scan, there was no tumor, and the skull had repaired itself. Luke’s bone had grown back.
“I can’t explain it,” the doctor said.
We immediately told him we could explain it: the power of prayer and the mercy of God!
I know in my heart that God heard our cries of desperation. Many people were on their knees praying, and we are humbled and elated that God chose to heal him. The Lord must have great and mighty things in store for Luke. May we never forget the absolute awesome feeling of the power and presence of God.
—Brad Hooks, Waycross, Georgia
“Turn Off the Radio and Pray”
One beautiful sunny day in July 1992, at 5:30 PM, I was driving my Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme south on I-35, headed from Oklahoma City to Norman. I was scheduled to teach a class at Southern Nazarene University.
I was listening to sports talk radio and not exactly focused on spiritual things at the time, when a voice suddenly spoke to me: “Turn off the radio and pray for your safety.” The urgent words were so perfectly clear that it sounded as if someone were in the car with me.
Despite the unmistakable warning, I was more puzzled than anything and continued as before. Then the voice said again, “Turn off the radio and pray for your safety.” Feeling almost foolish, I did exactly that: “Lord, if I am in danger, please surround me with your protection. I leave this in your hands.”
Two minutes later a teenager in a Trans Am came screaming out of a parking lot and into the street (I’d just merged onto an exit ramp at Norman). He nearly hit me broadside. I did a complete 360 in the road at 65 mph. Two other cars ended up in a ditch and on the road’s shoulder, respectively.
As I continued to drive, the voice came again and said, “Never forget that I am not only your Creator and Savior but I am also your Protector.”
If I hadn’t been watching for something to occur, which I was because of that voice, I’d have been hit broadside and probably killed. When I got home around 11:00 PM, I told my wife, Vickie, about the incident, and we agreed to wake our two kids to tell them how God had protected me.
—Steve Stearman, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
No Oil Shortage
I’d been invited to speak to a combined group of Catholics and Protestants in a local Catholic church by a friend who’s a nun. I spoke to a group of fifty about the blind beggar Jesus healed, and I encouraged them to see themselves as the beggar coming to the Lord with their requests and needs. I closed by offering the opportunity to receive prayer, and all fifty people responded.
Since I like to anoint with oil when I pray for others, I pulled my small vial from my pocket and quickly realized it was almost empty. I knew it would not be enough, so I asked if anyone had more. A person in the back thought he had some in his car and left the service to get it.
Meanwhile I started praying and anointing the people, one by one. I’d prayed for half and, sure enough, by the twenty-fifth person my oil was gone. I tried pounding the bottle on my hand to get a last drop, but it was bone-dry.
An aisle separated me from the other twenty-five, and as I walked over to pray for the next group I thought, I can just keep praying and go through the motions of anointing each one. They’ll never know if I have oil or not. Then I asked myself if this would be deceitful. I paused, not knowing what to do.
At that same instant the man returned and asked if I still needed oil. I said yes and held up the bottle to show it was empty. To my surprise, and to the surprise of the few people sitting close to me, the bottle was now half full. The one closest to me called out, “I just saw your bottle fill up with oil!”
I did not see it happen, but, nevertheless, there it was. So I just kept praying and anointing as if this were all normal. The tiny vial didn’t run out for months, and we used it many, many times. Everybody wanted to be anointed with the “oil from heaven.”
I asked the Lord what this incident meant and have thought on it a lot. Perhaps it just meant that I had a need and he met it. I also realized that he is closer than I sometimes think, and he cares about the small details of our lives.
—Don Shafer, Anchorage, Alaska
A Dream Come True
My Grandma Morgan was like a guardian angel to me, my biggest prayer warrior and supporter. When I was diagnosed with learning disabilities as a child, she always encouraged me and believed in me. Though experts told my parents I probably wouldn’t be able to finish junior high, Grandma always pushed me to achieve. Her vibrant red hair was like a flaming torch blazing trails for me as she constantly challenged and motivated me.
With encouragement from my parents and grandma, I not only finished high school but also graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree in behavioral science, going on to work for many years with delinquent juveniles. Then I felt God wanted me to change fields and be trained in emergency medical services. Once again Grandma cheered me on, encouraging me to follow my dream. Today I’m a registered paramedic, performing ambulance and helicopter critical care.
I was devastated when I got the news that Grandma had cancer. She suffered for several years, and then word came that she was nearing the end. Since she lived in Wichita, Kansas, and I in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, I made sure to visit many times during her illness.
Early Sunday morning, October 29, 2006, I woke from a deep sleep. I lay there awestruck, reflecting on a vivid dream. I remembered finding myself in a bright, wonderful, indescribable light. It was warm, and I heard beautiful voices. A multitude of people whose faces seemed too bright to behold was standing around one person in the middle of the group. The crowd was parted down one side by an even greater, indescribably bright light. I knew that light was coming from the throne and that Jesus was at its center.
As I looked closer, I began to recognize some in the circle—former pastors, old friends, my paternal grandma, my great-grandparents. Then I saw people I somehow knew to be Moses, Abraham, David, Daniel, Ruth, Peter, and Paul. My grandma stood right there in the middle of the circle, looking radiant, her red hair blazing. Then I realized that this was Grandma’s welcoming party in heaven. They were greeting her. She was finally home.
The dream had seemed so real, I didn’t want to stop thinking about it. But I looked at my clock and realized I had to get ready for church. I hurriedly dressed, grabbed a bite of breakfast, and rushed out the door. I made it in time for choir practice and then sang in the choir. When we finished, as I slipped into the pew behind my mom and dad, Mom turned around and whispered, “We just got a call. Grandma died early this morning.”
I suddenly realized that the time of her death was just minutes before I’d awakened that morning. My dream was true. Grandma was home in heaven. And, oh, did she have a welcoming party! My heart swelled within me as tears filled my eyes.
We packed up and drove to be with Grandpa in Wichita. The hours were filled with preparations. I was wrapped in the afterglow of my wonderful dream, but I missed Grandma enormously.
After the memorial service the next Tuesday, we decided to go to dinner.
We’d forgotten it was Halloween and were somewhat surprised to see the servers and staff dressed in costumes. Then our waitress came, and I was astonished. She was dressed like an angel, and her halo encircled a flaming mass of red curls!
And then I really understood. Although Grandma was gone, my heavenly Father had promised to send his angels to watch over us. He’d even sent a redheaded angel to our table as a tangible reminder.
—Linn Kane, Bartlesville, Oklahoma
Security With a Sword
After relocating to a new city for a job, I bought a house in a quaint district next to a large park filled with beautiful old trees. I didn’t realize the area was teeming with drug traffickers. I’d learned quickly that one dealer lived next door; his “customers” frequented the neighborhood at all hours of the night.
I called an alarm company to price a monitored security system. As I considered the $35-a-month commitment, the thought occurred to me, Why, for that price I could sponsor a child through Compassion International!
Suddenly a second, even stronger “thought” landed. I felt God saying, “Mayme, if you sponsor that child, I’ll be your security system.” I sponsored Stephen Henrique, a beautiful little boy from Colombia, then went about my business living life in my new home and trusting God to be my protection.
My job required long hours and I often got home after dark, too late to walk safely in the park that was a stone’s throw away. This had become a popular place for dealers and users, and police had been trying to clean it up, but it was still no place for a woman to be walking alone after hours.
Nevertheless, determined not to live in fear—and remembering that I had the top-of-the-line “security system”—I often laced up my tennis shoes and hit the sidewalks that meandered through the tree-lined park.
One night a patrol car pulled up next to me. A policeman lowered the window and asked, “Have you seen any suspicious characters in the area?”
My heart sped up. “No, officer, I haven’t seen anyone.”
“Let us know if you do,” he said. “We’ve gotten several calls from people reporting a seven-foot-tall man walking around the park, wearing a white muscle shirt and carrying a sword.”
No joke!
I assured him I’d call if I saw anyone fitting the description. As his car pulled away, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud with delight and gratitude.
I’m sure the officer had just described my guardian angel.
—Mayme Shroyer, Colorado Springs, Colorado
Healed in the Holy Land
A few years ago, my wife, Barbara, and I took a tour of the Holy Land with twenty-four other couples. One day, we went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem to have mass in the tomb, believed by many to be the place Jesus’ body was laid after the crucifixion. Since the space is small, the members of our group took turns entering to partake in mass, led by a priest.
The couple in front of us in line was from Michigan, and the woman had recently been diagnosed with bowel cancer, though she’d told no one on the trip. (We discovered this later.) She had put off surgery until she returned from Israel. In the tomb was a picture above the table where Christ had been laid. The woman reached over the table and raised the picture, which was on a hinge. She then reached into the space behind the picture and felt a shock, like an electrical charge.
When she walked out of the tomb, she came upon a Franciscan priest sitting by the door. He motioned to her to come close to him so he could tell her something. He blessed her, touched her, and said with a nod of his head, “You may go now.”
When her surgeon examined her back in Michigan, he found absolutely no evidence of cancer. She had been cured.
—John Willke, Cincinnati, Ohio
Quick Recovery
Not long ago my wife, Anoosh, began to have severe pain in her jaw. An MRI showed a black mass in her upper jawbone. The doctor was fairly certain it was cancer, but couldn’t be 100 percent positive until the day of her operation.
I sat in the waiting room, praying intently. Finally he came out and said that yes, it was cancer, and that they’d excised a portion for a biopsy to confirm. I went to the parking lot for an hour and a half, crying out to God.
The doctor met me at the door when I came back. He said, “We don’t understand this, but when we opened your wife’s jaw, both the other physician and I saw cancer. We had to remove all her teeth on that side because there was no bone left. It must have been a miracle. We both saw cancer, yet the biopsy came back negative. By the time we sewed her jaw back together there was no sign of cancer.”
Anoosh has been cancer-free ever since.
—Alan Bullock, Colleyville, Texas
The Day the Seizures Stopped
When I was considering proposing marriage to my then-girlfriend, Barbara, her father recommended changing my mind because she’d battled life-threatening seizures her entire life. She would need 24/7 care and incur costly medical bills for the rest of her days. Undeterred, we chose to marry and resolved to do the best we could to manage her medical situation.
One day, while home, Barbara had a strong impression—she felt that God had healed her and that she no longer needed to take the medications required to control the seizures. I certainly believed in God’s ability to heal, yet I worried for her safety and well-being. I insisted she take the meds during the week and, instead, not take them on the weekends so I could be there in case she began having a seizure.
A few days later I was at work when the Lord told me there was nothing I could do that he couldn’t do himself. I rushed home to tell Barbara she could stop taking all medications. That was many years ago, and to date, ever since that time, she has been 100 percent seizure-free.
—Benny Tate, Milner, Georgia