I grew up in the Deep South of the United States, during a time when segregation made it nearly impossible to know anyone outside of their own race. I was also aware of the prevailing belief that not everyone was loved by God. But one hot, dusty day when I was a child, I got to experience something different.
My mother was driving my sister and me to meet a friend in another town. Cars had no seat belts in those days, and I began to climb from the back seat to the front, when my mother saw an oncoming car heading for us. My mother swerved, and our car rolled off into a ravine. My sister and I were thrown out of the car, then pinned underneath it. Both my mother and sister were unconscious, but my mother was awakened by my screams. She climbed out of the steep ravine up to the highway and waved down some drivers. They stopped, lifted the car from my sister and me, pulled us out, and carried us to safety.
One of the cars was on the way to a hospital, and the driver—whose wife was due to deliver a baby—volunteered to take us with them. I was no longer screaming or crying but said aloud to my mother, “God took care of us, didn’t He?” She said yes, and the kind people who had taken us into their car agreed. We graciously thanked them for their kindness.
