Last night an angel of the God to whom I belong . . . stood beside me.
Acts 27:23 NLT
It was time to move again.
We began to prepare for missionary work in New Guinea at the YWAM base in Port Moresby. Lisa was now four years old, and Tina almost two. They kept us busy, but miraculously on this particular evening they had both settled down and were sleeping quietly.
The little white stucco house we rented was not far from the Southern California mountains in a town called La Crescenta. We had almost no money but the rent was reasonable. It was a humble little house with a large garage and workshop in the big backyard, which was also full of apricot trees. There were even swings for Lisa to play on.
The only odd thing was the decision our next-door neighbor made to begin construction of his new house alongside the huge pine trees that lined our driveway, which in turn bordered our house. I say that it was odd, because there was plenty of room to place the house more centrally on his land. The construction looked to be about halfway completed. The outside framing was covered with insulation, and holes were cut into the walls where windows and doors would go.
Frankly, though, we gave his construction project little thought. It was 1971, and things were beautiful in that time on the earth in Southern California. More peaceful. I remember taking my father-in-law down to Montrose to show him around—especially to point out all the banks. There were banks everywhere. I talked about the little bit of money I had placed in one of these impressive establishments, and he laughed with me. But I was always trying to be cautious and save for the future.
We had now lived in California for about three and a half years. I was proud of David’s work with YWAM. Anything they needed him to do, he could do. He was artistic and gifted at writing, printing, binding. Summers he would travel and be gone for weeks at a time, knocking on doors to share the Good News. He was very shy, but he knew the call of God on his life.
Though it was pleasant to have a house with electricity and indoor plumbing after life on the Barrier Island, we still looked forward to returning to the mission field. For the moment, though, we welcomed sleep, glad for the long and, we hoped, quiet night ahead.
At midnight we both awoke with a start. Sirens blared as fire trucks rumbled down our street and stopped near our house. We pulled back the curtains over our bedroom window and watched wide-eyed as firemen attached a hose to the hydrant on our street and moved inside the big empty house next door.
After some minutes, the firemen came back out and began checking the yard and perimeter of the property. They had apparently caught the problem early, perhaps thanks to some alert neighbor. Their big trucks, with the bright rotating lights still flashing, drove away.
Not a peep had come from the girls through all this, so we pulled the curtains shut, settled back gratefully once more and went to sleep.
At four o’clock I woke again. This time I heard no noise outside, nothing discernible that might have awakened me, but I had the oddest thought: If this is an angel, I want to get a good look at him. How utterly peculiar! Instantly, there was a loud banging at the front door.
David was awake now, too, and we grabbed our robes and hurried to the living room. David opened the front door, and there stood a man nicely dressed in slacks and an open-collared shirt. He was wearing street shoes, and to our perplexed look offered his explanation.
“That’s my van over there,” he said quickly, pointing to a vehicle a good block from our house. “I was just driving by because I’m on my way to go fishing.” I barely had time to think but noticed that he hardly looked like someone going fishing. He continued quickly, pointing to the neighboring house. “Look, you’ve got to get out. The house next door is on fire!”
Even as he spoke, we saw—and heard—it. Flames raged through the empty house, leaping out from windows and doors and up through the roof. Everything seemed to be popping, snapping, melting in a great roar. What was more, the fire was spreading to the top of the pine trees between us. Our house was no more than the width of our driveway from the roaring flames.
We knew this man would help us even though we did not take the time to exchange words. David and I flew to the girls’ bedroom. David picked up Lisa, and I picked up little Tina. David needed to call the fire department, so he put Lisa into the stranger’s arms and hurried to the phone. The stranger and I, taking the children, went out the door, through the front yard and across the street, where we stood and watched the incredible scene before us.
I could not think about anything except that the house was going to burn down. I was so flummoxed I began talking nervously. I had never seen anything like this except in a movie. The man said nothing in response. But then I looked up at the sky and saw, as if in a vision, these words written in large red letters: Your house will be saved.
I wish I could say that I was bolstered by faith at this odd occurrence, but I had nothing but fear in my heart as plumes of fire and smoke lit the night sky around us with a surreal glow. Lisa snuggled quietly in the man’s arms, watching wide-eyed. Tina was quiet in my arms.
After David emerged from our house, he began to knock on neighbors’ doors to let them know the danger and also to see if there was anyone who might help. We really had no idea what to do. The fire department had not arrived. He got the hose and started trying to soak our roof with water.
The tops of the trees along the driveway were snapping and crackling in the blaze.
At this the man spoke: “What is your husband doing?”
“He’s getting help . . . the trees . . .”
“Oh, no.”
“But the house . . .” I said again with a helpless gesture.
At that moment a police car came within sight. The officer stopped instantly and radioed the fire department. Within barely a minute the fire trucks roared onto our street once more and began blasting water on the burning house and trees. By this time about fifty neighbors, most in robes and slippers, stood on the street, asking questions, wondering what had happened, offering help.
The fire was at last put out. It never made the short hop from the trees to our house. God had spared us.
David came up to us and said to the stranger, “Can I take my little girl now?” David extended his arms and, with the barest hesitation, the stranger leaned forward and placed Lisa gently into them.
By this time, the welcome edge of morning on the horizon dispelled some of my fears. A neighbor motioned to me to come and talk with her, but I was reluctant to leave this stranger who had helped us so immensely. I then remembered my odd thought upon awakening: If this is an angel, I want to get a good look at him. I turned and stared at him, unabashedly, for about thirty seconds. He stared back, calmly, not saying a word.
My neighbor was calling me over and I felt I should go to her. I turned in her direction just as David was turning to the stranger, intending to thank him. But the man was not there. He had simply disappeared. We looked down the street; the van was also gone.
Several neighbors standing nearby posed the question on our own minds: “Where did he go?” We could only shake our heads in amazement.
Finally, with the light of morning filling the sky, the fire department told us that it was safe to return home. David and I sat on the turquoise living room rug with Lisa and Tina and started to worship God, thanking Him for protecting us. We lifted our voices and our hands, so grateful for what He had done. We knew that He had sent an angel to save us from disaster.
Later in the day, I was walking around the house with the girls when I saw new cause for rejoicing. Around our bedroom window, the one on the side of the house by the fire, was something like a halo, a yellow scorch mark about an inch wide in the otherwise unsinged stucco. It looked as if it had been drawn on with a yellow marker except that it had the look of fire in it.
It was awesome to me. I knew it was a sign that the Lord had come the night before, visiting us and leaving the mark of His divine protection. Standing there with our little girls, I was nearly brought to tears with gratitude. I wanted to take a picture, but my camera was already packed in a barrel ready for our departure to New Guinea.
The evening paper carried the story of the fire. It was indeed arson, our neighbor setting fire to his own house—twice! When the first attempt had failed, he had set another.
I cut out the story to send to David’s parents, and when Leonard and Martha got my letter, they phoned us right away. We then learned more about God’s amazing provision for our safety.
Leonard and Martha were staying in the house of a friend who lived in the Bahamas. The night of the fire, at midnight, they were awakened by three distinct knocks on their locked bedroom door. Leonard got up, pulled his trousers on and opened the door, but saw nothing. An experienced intercessor, he sensed a warning and began praying for his three sons’ families who were living in various parts of the world. He prayed that God would intervene to protect us all from danger. After a while he went back to bed.
At four a.m., the same thing happened. Three loud knocks awakened them. Again Leonard got up, pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Again no one was there. He prayed fervently until he felt peace that God had acted to protect his children and grandchildren.
The story of the fire was all over town. People we had never met came to our door to talk about it. Our neighbors who had seen the stranger wondered about his presence—and disappearance. They knew something unusual had happened.
Even as we made the final preparations for the new life ahead of us, we talked of little else. We did not know that we were about to have another lesson in the supernatural—this time, the power of healing prayer.