God's Power in Action
God has a way of allowing us to
be in the right place at the right
time.
I was walking down a dimly lit
street late one evening when I
heard muffled screams coming
from behind a clump of bushes.
Alarmed, I slowed down to listen,
and panicked when I realized that
what I was hearing were the
unmistakable sounds of a struggle:
heavy grunting, frantic scuffling,
and tearing of fabric.
Only yards from where I stood,
a woman was being attacked. Should I get
involved? I was frightened for my own safe-
ty, and cursed myself for having suddenly
decided to take a new route home that night.
What if I became another statistic? Shouldn't
I just run to the nearest phone and call the
police?
Although it seemed an eternity, the delib-
erations in my head had taken only seconds,
but already the girl's cries were growing
weaker. I knew I had to act fast. How could I
walk away from this? No, I finally resolved, I
could not turn my back on the fate of this
unknown woman, even if it meant risking my
own life.
I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I
don't know where I found the moral courage
and physical strength -- but once I had final-
ly resolved to help the girl, I became
strangely transformed. I ran behind the
bushes and pulled the assailant off the
woman. Grappling, we fell to the ground,
where we wrestled for a few minutes until
the attacker jumped up and escaped.
Panting hard, I scrambled upright and
approached the girl, who was crouched
behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I
could barely see her outline, but I could cer-
tainly sense her trembling shock. Not want-
ing to frighten her further, I at first spoke to
her from a distance. "It's okay," I said sooth-
ingly. "The man ran away. You're safe now."
There was a long pause and then I heard the
words, uttered in wonder, in amazement.
"Dad, is that you?" And then, from behind
the tree, out stepped my youngest daughter,
Katherine.
God has a way of allowing us to
be in the right place at the right
time.
I was walking down a dimly lit
street late one evening when I
heard muffled screams coming
from behind a clump of bushes.
Alarmed, I slowed down to listen,
and panicked when I realized that
what I was hearing were the
unmistakable sounds of a struggle:
heavy grunting, frantic scuffling,
and tearing of fabric.
Only yards from where I stood,
a woman was being attacked. Should I get
involved? I was frightened for my own safe-
ty, and cursed myself for having suddenly
decided to take a new route home that night.
What if I became another statistic? Shouldn't
I just run to the nearest phone and call the
police?
Although it seemed an eternity, the delib-
erations in my head had taken only seconds,
but already the girl's cries were growing
weaker. I knew I had to act fast. How could I
walk away from this? No, I finally resolved, I
could not turn my back on the fate of this
unknown woman, even if it meant risking my
own life.
I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I
don't know where I found the moral courage
and physical strength -- but once I had final-
ly resolved to help the girl, I became
strangely transformed. I ran behind the
bushes and pulled the assailant off the
woman. Grappling, we fell to the ground,
where we wrestled for a few minutes until
the attacker jumped up and escaped.
Panting hard, I scrambled upright and
approached the girl, who was crouched
behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I
could barely see her outline, but I could cer-
tainly sense her trembling shock. Not want-
ing to frighten her further, I at first spoke to
her from a distance. "It's okay," I said sooth-
ingly. "The man ran away. You're safe now."
There was a long pause and then I heard the
words, uttered in wonder, in amazement.
"Dad, is that you?" And then, from behind
the tree, out stepped my youngest daughter,
Katherine.
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