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.