Invariably, people send stories to me about moments when a wink from God auspiciously entered into their lives—just in time—delivering them from disaster or misfortune.
Or delivering them good news—just in time.
“God is never late—but He often arrives in the nick of time,” is something my grandmother, Mama Alice, always said in that British accent of hers.
I suspect that we’ve all heard that adage, and probably endorse it more and more the older and wiser we get. In fact, most of the stories in this book could have fallen into this chapter, exemplifying that God’s winks, most of the time, come just in time.
Here are a few of my favorite stories that support Mama Alice’s premise.
The kitchen floor was littered with ripped-open cereal boxes, a dirty shirt, wadded newspaper, a spilled can of coffee—it was a mess.
In the middle of it all, sprawled Ron Latoure, sobbing uncontrollably.
His life was a mess.
Unbathed for days, matted hair swinging annoyingly in front of his eyes, Ron struggled to release an ice cube from a frozen tray. “Damn you!” he cried, banging it on the floor.
Since his girlfriend, Donna, suddenly left him—the stinging words, “I’m fed up with you, your job, and everything about you!” ringing in his ears—he seemed to be drawn into a downward, spiraling whirlpool. The breakup was all his fault. And now he was certain he really loved her—and should have told her so.
“Damn youuuu.”
His self-esteem had never been lower. He was worthless. He was of no use to anyone. And nobody cared.
Snap.
An ice cube broke from the pack. He watched his skin redden as he roughly scraped the cold cube across his wrist. It would deaden the pain.
The knife would deaden him.
“Auuuugggggg!” A guttural, desperate, primeval sound erupted from his depths as he lifted the knife.
“He was the sweetest guy you’d ever want to meet,” said producer Bryan Hickox to his wife Joanne, describing the events that had taken place on the set of a production he’d just completed.
“Ron Latoure is one of the best DPs in the business,” he continued, recounting the erratic behavior of his director of photography. “But I’m worried about him.”
He described how he’d had to pull Ron aside to talk with him about his uncharacteristic tardiness and outbursts during the filming. Quietly pausing, Bryan pictured his last conversation with him:
“Ron, you’re a mess,” he’d said in a fatherly manner.
Ron hung his head, nodding in agreement.
“I’ve got a friend you should talk to. Larry Poland. He might help you out.”
Dr. Larry Poland, founder of Mastermedia Ministries, was a friend and counselor to many who work in the television and film industry.
Joanne interrupted his thoughts with an observation:
“Sounds like he really got hit hard when Donna walked out on him,” she said thoughtfully.
Bryan nodded. “She had a hard time handling Ron’s busy travel schedule.” Sadly shaking his head, he added, “He’s really depressed.”
“Why don’t we invite him to dinner?” offered Joanne softly.
Bryan looked at her.
It was a highly uncharacteristic remark. Joanne did not normally invite someone from one of Bryan’s productions to their home. Certainly she was a gracious hostess. They would often dine out with colleagues or even have an occasional dinner party.
But . . . inviting one of the staff to dinner . . . that was different.
“Good idea,” said Bryan, going to the phone.
There was no answer.
Joanne continued to think about Ron. Something was really pressing on her mind that they should reach out to him.
“I’m going to try him again,” she said after a while.
“Quieeeeett!” screamed Ron, once more swiping the ice over his wrist.
Through the maelstrom of internal and external screams broke an aggravating noise.
Ringggggg.
Ringggggg.
“Quieeeeett!”
The blade wavered above his wrist. He paused.
“H-h-hello?”
“Hi, Ron. This is Joanne Hickox. Bryan and I were hoping you could join us for dinner tonight at our house.
“Ah . . .” He was at a loss for words.
“Can you make it?”
“Ah . . . yeah . . . I guess so.”
Bryan greeted Ron at the door, and before sitting down to dinner, he gave his director of photography a little tour of their home, commenting upon the relevance of particular artwork and giving brief descriptions of how he had acquired them.
In the hallway hung an oil painting by an artist that Bryan knew personally. It was an unusual depiction of Jesus. Smiling.
Ron stared at the painting.
He felt strange. These nice people inviting him into their home—making him feel important, appreciated. And now, looking at the image of Christ smiling—at him! He felt a sudden constriction in his throat. Tears welled up. He couldn’t help it. He wept.
Placing an arm on Ron’s shoulder, Bryan sensed he was witnessing the start of a transformation. One that needed Larry Poland’s help to complete.
Two days later, over breakfast with Larry at a Denny’s restaurant, Ron committed his life to the Lord.
Only later did Bryan Hickox learn that Joanne’s telephone call was a godwink—just in time.
“What are the odds that you would call Ron at that exact moment?” Bryan pondered aloud to Joanne. “Wasn’t it incredible how God nudged you into inviting him to dinner?”
Here is a test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished: If you are alive, it isn’t.1
—RICHARD BACH
Ron Latoure looks back on that evening with thankfulness. He stood on the precipice of his own demise, convinced that no one cared about him. But the unbelievable timing of the call from Joanne Hickox—God winking at him just in time to save his life—opened his consciousness to understanding that he was never alone, that Jesus was always smiling upon him.
Since that day, Ron uses that extraordinary experience—the lifesaving godwink story—to witness to others. He tells how God winked at him, just in time, just in the moment he most needed it.
It may seem odd, but when a circus performer talks about “home,” they are speaking about their apartment on the circus train where they live most of the year.
The annual schedule is pretty much the same. Exhaustive rehearsals at winter quarters, followed by opening night in St. Petersburg, Florida, in late December, building to the opening in New York City in March. Then it’s on the rails for the rest of the season.
This is the story of the decisions made by four residents of the community we know as the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus:
• Tammy and Tommy Parish, the famous clown couple whose colorfully painted faces were smiling from billboards and the sides of buses in every major city;
• Jim Ragona, a handsome ringmaster entering his thirteenth season, who as a child had prophetically announced in his fantasy play the words, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’”; and
• David Kiser, a gregarious natural organizer who was also commencing his thirteenth year of clowning.
Each of these performers should have been at home on the evening of January 12, 1994. Because they weren’t, their lives were saved. Extraordinary godwinks intervened, just in time.
Two weeks earlier, on the opening night of the circus, Tammy and Tommy Parish became the parents of a new baby clown named Amelia. (Whimsically, I’ve wondered if Amelia entered the world with bright red dots on her cheeks.)
Tammy Parish was exhausted. Amelia was born by cesarean section, and though Tammy had not yet returned to center ring, she was hard at work behind the scenes. On the night of January 12, she longingly anticipated crawling into her bed and having a day off as the circus train was about to move on to Orlando.
Tommy had decided to drive the family car to Orlando rather than have it sent. He urged Tammy to come with him.
“Come on, you and Amelia can sleep in the car! We’ll get a hotel and have the day to play.”
“Tommy, you know I always sleep better at home. Besides, the baby is still a light sleeper.”
“Come on, honey! I just want my girls to be with me.”
She relented.
As a normal rule, Jim Ragona also arranged to have his car sent ahead as the circus moved from city to city. That allowed him to sleep in his apartment on the train, which he’d newly decorated, and still have transportation when he arrived at his destination.
But on January 12, Jim wrestled with whether he should drive to Orlando. He had not booked a place to stay. And he, too, needed a good night’s rest.
“In the end, because it was a relatively short hop, I decided to drive—to have a real day off in Orlando,” he said.
David Kiser had no question about what he was doing on January 12. Well in advance, he had spread the word to the other clowns that he was organizing a day of pure fun at Walt Disney World. In a scene mimicking the circus itself, he piled ten clowns and himself into a five-passenger minivan to make the two-hour drive to Orlando. Two additional clowns arranged to meet the group there. None of the thirteen clowns would be at home that night.
The circus train pulled out of St. Petersburg in the early morning of January 13. Shortly before 9:00 AM, a man stopped at a railroad crossing near Lakeland and watched as the colorful train passed. He noticed sparks flying from beneath one of the cars and instantly called 911 on his cell phone.
The sparks were caused by a broken wheel directly under the clown car. At forty miles an hour the train rapidly approached a junction. All the cars on the front of the train glided over the junction, but when the broken wheel encountered the switch, the remaining thirteen cars, from the clown car to the caboose, violently careened from the track in a screech of ripped metal, cantilevering in every direction, landing like broken toys.
The train was strewn along the tracks, spilling into the backyard of a Lakeland home, which within minutes became an emergency medical center for the injured. Only later did people ponder the irony that the home was owned by the father-in-law of a Ringling Brothers executive vice president, adding to a chain of godwinks.
Tammy and Tommy Parish and Jim Ragona rushed to the scene. They learned that elephant trainer Ted Sverteski and performer Cesilee Conkling had lost their lives in the tragedy. As they surveyed the devastation, they could only marvel at the godwinks that had caused so many to be saved.
“It’s mind-boggling that so many people were away from home that night, and there were not more injuries,” said Tammy. “Our bedroom was demolished. Where the baby would have been . . . was crushed.”
“At first, I couldn’t find my home,” said Jim Ragona. “Then I realized that the two outside walls of the train were pressed together, actually touching each other. My bed . . . where I would have been sleeping . . . was crushed between them.”
David Kiser also let out a sigh, observing that his bedroom was directly above the broken wheel.
Moreover, because most of the people on the train were still in bed at the time of the crash, injuries were minimized.
Told that it was the worst circus disaster ever, the circus family did what families must do at times of crisis: they came before the Lord, pulled themselves together, mourned the loss of two of their own, and honored God for the blessing that so many were saved.
When they opened in Orlando, delayed by only one night, the circus family was lifted up by the warm embrace of a supportive and exuberant audience.
In subsequent years, Tammy, Tommy, Jim, and David have wondered if God underscored His presence in their lives by using the number 13: on January 13, as David and Jim entered their 13th year with the circus, and as 13 clowns took a trip to Walt Disney World, 13 cars tore from the track.
This is for certain: they’ll never let a January 13 pass without a special prayer of thanks to God for placing them where they were, just in time.
The day was slipping away.
Mary Jane Waldorf fleetingly looked at the clock, anxiously hoping she’d conquer this new chicken recipe before her husband got home. Cooking was not her forte.
Maybe I shouldn’ta taken this on tonight, she thought.
With a motherly glance, she saw that Kurt, her four-year-old, was still busy playing with a coloring book and crayons in the middle of the kitchen floor.
She smiled, watching the intent look on his face as the crayon moved across the page and outside the lines.
Her attention was drawn back to the chicken. Why was this so hard? Aren’t women supposed to be born knowing how to cook a simple meal? But this recipe was asking for things she didn’t understand.
A sudden, irrational idea flashed into her mind. A momentary escape from this frustration.
“Come on, Kurt . . . let’s you and me hang that teddy bear picture I bought for your room.”
Scooping up her son, Mary Jane knew that this was a task she could handle with ease. That chicken can just wait, she thought.
After placing a hook in the bedroom wall, she stepped back, tilted her head slightly, and said, “How’s that?” looking at her son.
Crash!
It was the sound of breaking glass coming from elsewhere in the house.
Mary Jane ran to the kitchen and was flabbergasted. The chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and smashed to smithereens—right where Kurt had been sitting only moments before!
Looking at the shards of glass and splintered metal, Mary Jane breathed a sigh of relief and rolled her eyes skyward, acknowledging the wonderful godwink that had “unreasonably” motivated her to leave her cooking chores, to scoop up Kurt, and to take him to safety—just in the nick of time.
ISN’T IT AMAZING?
If you totaled up the number of times you were just about to step off a curb but were distracted by something, when you found yourself almost striding in front of a fast-moving car, when a small voice deep within—just in the nick of time—stopped you from taking that step, I suspect you’d be amazed. Sometimes called instinct, I call it the small, still voice of God.
“Readyyyy . . .”
The captain’s gruff voice echoed through the barren barracks.
Slap!
In near unison, fourteen hands slapped cold muzzles, orchestrating the elevation of fourteen rifles into the frigid, post-dawn air.
Arnold Hutschnecker stared back at them.
How had he found himself in this predicament?
The words, God, how are you going to get me out? raced through his mind as he counted fourteen intent soldiers, in stone-statue postures, squinting back at him through crosshairs.
He was only twenty. A young soldier cut off from his German army unit, behind enemy lines in the Ukraine. He had banded together with six others, all older than him, but his headstrong personality had soon cast him as the leader. They’d found the deserted barracks for refuge, only to be awakened suddenly by Russian soldiers, rousted outside at the end of rifles, and shoved into a line two feet apart.
Pulling a deep breath to calm himself, Arnold surveyed his adversaries. Seven of the soldiers had fallen to one knee, the other seven were standing. He quickly calculated: Two rifles aimed at each victim. No escape. No place to run.
Arnold thought of his family in Berlin.
He thought of God.
“Aaaaaim . . .”
The captain’s voice, raspy from years of tobacco use, pierced the air like the cracking sound of a frozen lake. He paused. He took several long, savoring drags on the remainder of his hand-rolled cigarette.
A morning breeze whistled through the sparse trees and amongst the buildings.
The captain tossed the cigarette to the ground. He stomped on it, as if he were killing a bug, slowly twisting his boot to be certain of its death.
Above the breeze rose a faint sound. A purring sound.
The captain raised an eyebrow, cocked his head.
The noise increased. Soon it was identifiable as a motorbike, coming closer and closer. The bike and its rider sped into the yard. A hurried statement in a foreign language caused the captain to shout a command.
Arnold didn’t comprehend the words, but he knew they meant “Move out!” as the firing squad scattered.
Arnold motioned for his soldiers to shrink back behind the buildings.
“What’s going on?” they asked.
“Polish Legionnaires . . . they must be coming this way! But run. They’re our enemies too!”
As World War I wound down, Arnold Hutschnecker led his compatriots to safety and made his way home to Berlin. Only a few years later, his Jewish heritage was exposed, and he fled to America from the country he’d defended. His postwar studies allowed him to become a prominent doctor in medicine and psychology, and in the mid-1950s, he wrote a best-selling book aptly titled The Will to Live.
You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.2
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Arnold’s book drew upon the wisdom he’d gained about the power of faith as he stood—with seemingly no escape—before a firing squad on a frigid morning in the Ukraine.
When a close friend found himself with the rare opportunity to coax Arnold into a personal reflection on those distant events, the doctor confessed that he’d often marveled at the godwinks that had so auspiciously arrived—just in time—to cause the captain to drag slowly on the remnants of his cigarette, producing an opportunity for a distant motorbike to be heard, and to lift Arnold from a seemingly hopeless situation.
The wild, squeal-filled game of tag ended when Dave and his two little sons collapsed on the grass, blinking up at an ice-blue sky. It was the first time he had seen Dagyn and Devin in seven days. He had picked them up at their mom’s for a weekend of roughhousing and snuggling.
As they lay on their backs, breathing hard and blinking up into the brilliant sun, five-year-old Dagyn spoke. “Why is the sky blue, Dadda?” he asked in the confiding way of children, never doubting that mommy and daddy have all the answers they need.
Dave smiled, amazed at the happy coincidence behind this question. Three days ago it would have stumped him. But studying for a teaching degree, Dave was taking a physics class this term. Just two days before, his professor had discussed the science behind the simple phenomenon.
In his best teacher’s voice, Dave began: “Light comes from the sun, right Dagyn?”
“Right, Dadda!”
“And did you know that the air has tiny, invisible things in it called molecules? We can’t see the molecules, but sometimes a bunch of them clump together, and we get rain. Water is one kind of molecule, but there are others too; we just can’t see them. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, Dadda!”
“Well, the light from the sun has lots of different colors in it. You know that prism Mommy has, the glass thing that when you put it in the sun, all the colors of the rainbow shine out? Those colors are all the colors hiding in sunlight. Well, blue is one of those colors, and when the blue light bumps into the tiny molecules in the air, the molecules grab that blue color and bounce it around the sky. They like blue the best, the molecules do, and when they scatter the blue light around—like pixies scattering fairy dust—you see a blue sky.”
“Wow,” Dagyn answered softly, shifting his head on Dave’s chest so he could feel the vibrations of his father’s voice. It was one of his favorite snuggle positions.
Dave smiled. It was a happy moment.
That moment was a rare idyll in a sea of turbulence. He was sure he had contributed to the marital turmoil that caused his wife to leave him two years before, but he couldn’t help feeling depressed and resentful. She’d moved in with a man who abused the boys physically and verbally. When Dave went to the authorities, the boys clammed up, afraid that if they told they would have to go live in a foster home.
He felt abandoned by the system that was meant to protect his kids. And by God—if God even existed.
Days later, alone again late at night in a deserted dental office, Dave wiped down counters, vacuumed carpets, and washed the windows that reflected back his own haggard face. He had attended classes all day and had just begun his swing-shift job as a janitor. The problem with a lonely, mindless job like this was that it was too easy to add up your troubles.
Depressed, Dave didn’t turn on the office radio to keep him company as he usually did. The radio sat high on a shelf in the patient records alcove, and tonight he just didn’t have the energy to reach up and switch it on. He walked straight into one of the examination rooms and began cleaning the floor in silence, his anguished thoughts filling his head to the bursting point.
He wasn’t worth anything, to anyone. His ability to stick with school was doubtful. After all, he’d dropped out many times before. He could hear his own dad telling him he was useless. When Dave tried to follow his directions, his dad sneered, “Do I have to draw you a picture? Are you stupid?”
Now, he couldn’t even protect his own children. Each time he complained to Children’s Services, his kids suffered more because of his speaking out. What kind of parent was he, to let his children suffer? As he wiped off a counter, he picked up the photo one of the hygienists kept of her kids: two blond, blue-eyed cuties. His eyes filled as he thought of Dagyn’s trusting face, that same face clouded with confusion when he asked Dave why his mom’s boyfriend liked to hit him.
He was a failure as a father, just as his own dad had failed him.
He replayed the words he heard his father say every time he got angry: “I’m going to kill myself!”
Tears brimmed in his eyes.
It was time.
Dave mentally turned to a familiar scenario—his “final solution.” On the ten-mile drive home from his job, he pictured how it would end. A part of the highway was lined with hundred-year-old valley oaks. He would get up speed on the straightaway just before the trees, jerk the wheel to the right, and within seconds there’d be nothing left but a tangled clump of steel and a broken, lifeless body. His old Bonneville, from pre-airbag days, would become his coffin.
He pictured what an oak tree would look like from behind the windshield of his car as the tree emerged out of the fog, growing larger in his headlights—then, total peaceful blackness. No noise, no sadness, no fear, nothing.
He resolved to do it. Tonight would be the night.
Strangely calm, almost elated that he’d made a clear decision, Dave lowered the blinds and left the examination room, shutting the door behind him.
For the last time, he thought, dragging his cart into the alcove.
He stopped. He heard music.
Funny, he hadn’t heard it before. The radio was piped into all the rooms that he’d been cleaning for the last thirty minutes. He knew he hadn’t turned it on.
“Who’s there?” Dave shouted, thinking someone must have come in. But no, the security door would have buzzed.
That’s weird, he thought, shrugging it off, lifting his mop out of the pail.
Then he froze, mop suspended in midair. He couldn’t shrug off what his ears were hearing now. Something like: “Daddy, why’s the sky so blue? When I grow up, will I be just like you?”3
As the song continued, Dave stared dumbly at the speaker in the ceiling and collapsed to his knees. Like a first-class letter, someone had just addressed a message to him. He’d never heard this song before, and there it was—a message bouncing out over the airwaves.
For him. A radio turned on by an unseen power.
For him. He was sure of that.
A flood of tears washed over him, and he was engulfed in the most incredible feeling of love and release of pain. A feeling like he’d never known before.
But the warm embrace of love was followed by a jolt of sheer terror.
What am I doing? If I kill myself, there will be no one there to protect Dagyn and his little brother.
Within seconds his “final solution” was revealed as a ridiculous idea. What someone once called a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
“I knew then, there was a God,” said Dave later. “I knew He loved me, and that He was there to protect me and teach me, just like I’m here to protect and teach my kids.
“That night was a wake-up call, a turning point in my life. I still have problems with depression. My boys continued to have problems with their mom’s boyfriend until the courts finally granted a restraining order against him. But if that radio hadn’t come on when it did, I would not be here today. That godwink gave me the courage and conviction to carry on. It was the ultimate ‘hang in there.’
“There is a God. And you can connect with Him if you will only try,” said Dave.
Dave learned the song he heard was “Father’s Love,” by Bob Carlisle and Randy Thomas:
“Daddy, why’s the sky so blue today?
Does Jesus really hear me when I pray?”4
Matt had a feeling that Cory was just one of those kids, the kind of high-school freshman that others picked on—glasses, shy, just a little too nice. That Friday afternoon Cory looked somewhat lost, walking down the sidewalk ahead of Matt, with a huge armful of books.
Why would any classmate of mine be taking that many books home on a Friday? wondered Matt. He must be a nerd. After all, it was a football weekend with several parties going on.
Just then a bunch of boisterous boys dashed past Matt, catching up to Cory.
“Hey, watch out!” they shouted, sending the stack of books flying in every direction, accidentally-on-purpose. As Cory went tumbling, his glasses flew into the grass, and the scoundrels kept right on running—two of them turning to reveal large, self-satisfied grins.
Cory was searching the ground for his glasses when Matt approached him. He looked up, his eyes filled with sadness.
“Those guys are jerks,” said Matt angrily, leaning down to pick up Cory’s glasses and helping him gather his books.
“I’m Matt Smitt,” he said with an outstretched hand.
Cory’s face lit up with a sweet smile.
Offering to help carry some of his books, Matt learned as they walked along that Cory had recently transferred to their school and lived fairly close to him. Arriving at Cory’s house, Matt again extended his hand.
“Hey, there’s a party after the game tomorrow, you wanna come?”
Cory looked surprised.
“Yeah. That would be great,” he replied.
As the school year wore on, the more Matt got to know Cory, the more he liked him. And over the course of the next three years, the two became close friends. Cory began to model Matt’s confident, good-natured personality. He opened up, was less shy, and more and more people wanted to be his friend.
Cory, in turn, was a good support for Matt and others. He was better at math and science and had better study habits than most kids. Cory began helping those who were struggling. Because he was better grounded than many, they looked to him as a moral compass.
Matt and Cory hung out together, double-dated, and shared dreams for the future.
But there was something that Cory never shared with Matt. Not until graduation.
Cory had been named class valedictorian. He was nervous, knowing he had to make a speech.
“Hey, you’re gonna be great!” said Matt with a pat on the shoulder, as they stood in their hats and gowns.
Cory smiled and nodded “thanks.”
A few minutes later Cory stood before his classmates and faculty and spoke with an authoritative yet slightly tremulous voice.
“Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years,” he said, “your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach . . . but mostly, your friends. I am here to tell you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story—”
Cory took himself back to that day when he was new at school. He was the geeky kid with glasses. No one liked him. He was out of place. And he had decided to end it all over a weekend—to take his own life. Who’d care?
He did have considerate thoughts for his mom . . . how tough it would be for her to carry home all the books he’d collected in his locker after he was gone. So he decided to empty his locker on that Friday afternoon.
Then he told how a gang of kids came along and sent him sprawling to the ground with all his things flying everywhere, including his glasses.
Cory looked into the audience, directly at Matt, and smiled.
“Thankfully, I was saved that day,” he said, slowing his cadence. “I was saved from doing the unspeakable by someone who leaned down to help me up, who cheered me up and cheered me on . . . not just that day . . . but every day since. I would like to thank him now. My friend—Matt Smitt.”
Matt sat stunned.
Who knew what Cory had been planning on that Friday nearly four years earlier? Who knew what a godwink it was for him to have been there just in time, and done what was in his heart to do?
Cory ended with a poem.
When someone’s lost, aimless, and adrift,
Take the time, give ’em a lift.
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery,
But today, you can be their gift.
IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT . . .
Yes, if you really took the time to think about it, you probably have a story of your own that could have gone into this chapter. Maybe several. Events that have long since slipped into the recesses of your mind, which you once granted the attention of a mere moment before shrugging them off as good fortune.
It is useful to resurrect those stories once in a while, reminding yourself that God has nudged you, spoken to you, or caused some other action to occur that pulled you back from the brink of calamity through a personally delivered godwink—just in time.