‘God stories’ of divine intervention

Little did I know that this profound experience would be repeated every day from then on. As the sun rose each morning, I found myself hopping out of bed and rushing to my computer to read the incoming stories. Some brought me to tears. Others simply surprised me, like the one my husband unexpectedly shared about the scar on his forehead.

When I began the search for stories, I said I was looking for one thing: the moment a person received personal proof that God or a Divine Power exists. People of many religions, cultures, and races responded. The stories they provided are true to them. There will be skepticism in response to this book, and I think it makes for a healthy dialogue.

I started the collection process by setting up a website, www.GodStories.com, where people could submit their stories. I then worked with the media to direct people there. At GodStories.com they were asked to provide personal details, declare that the stories were their own, and agree to their names’ being used. Those who were not willing to verify their credibility by using their own names were not considered for publication.

If I thought the story was right for the book, I contacted the person and often began a series of interviews via e-mail and over the phone. I was not always able to conduct in-person interviews, because the stories came in from all over the world. After the interviews, some stories were no longer considered, for various reasons.

Surprisingly, as the stories came in, similar themes emerged. These themes became chapters, and the book you are holding took shape.

I suspect your life will be changed by reading this book just as mine was after hearing these stories. I have been left with a sense of amazement and optimism as well as an abiding belief in something I once questioned. And it doesn’t stop on the last page, because once you give yourself permission to believe, you’ll find God Stories happening in your life every day.

"A beautiful design": Looking beyond
“God, please give me the words to say!”

Marian Brown, court reporter
As an adult, I drifted away from the Roman Catholic faith in which I was raised. I still believed in God and prayed on my own but was often skeptical that he was listening. His message on one special day wiped away all doubt.

My husband, Steve, and I lived with our two sons in San Diego County, California. Our home was the first to burn in what is known as the Firestorm of 2003 — the second-largest wildfire in U.S. history. It burned over 700,000 acres, destroying wildlife and 3,640 homes, and taking 15 lives in October of that year.

It would be several days after evacuating before we could return to the ruins of our home. A group of twenty of our closest friends spent all morning going through the ashes with shovels to see if there was anything salvageable before our lot was cleared for rebuilding. Their efforts were unsuccessful. There was absolutely nothing left; in fact, the fire was so hot that there were holes in the ground where trees had burned to their roots.

I decided to bring our two sons to the site later that morning. I wasn’t sure how they would react, but I knew they needed to see it with their own eyes in order to begin the healing process. My older son, Evan, was thirteen years old at the time and was very stoic. It was my younger son, ten-year-old Erik, who broke my heart as he walked through the ashes quietly wiping away tears.

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I didn’t know what to say or do when my children looked imploringly to me, yet I knew that my reaction would be key to how they handled this disaster. I began to pray as I stood there: “God, please help me. Give me the words. What do I say to my children, who have lost the only home they’ve ever known, lost everything they have in the world?” At that very moment, Erik called out, “Hey, you guys missed something. There’s a book over here.” Our friends said, “No way. We’ve been sifting through the ashes for four and a half hours and there’s nothing left, certainly nothing made of paper.” But Erik insisted until we finally all trudged over to where he was pointing at the remains of a book. He bent over and picked up the book, and as he did, the layers of pages fell away, disintegrating in his hand.

Everyone shook their heads and began walking away. Someone said, “Oh, we’re so sorry, honey. There’s nothing left but ashes.”

“No. Wait. Look,” Erik said, extending his arm. There in the palm of his hand was the most fragile piece of ash, the size of a half-dollar. On it was a picture of a family holding hands and three words: count your blessings.

Paul Hammond, network administrator
My wife and I had been sending shoe boxes of presents for Operation Christmas Child for a few years. One year we had packed a really nice box for a young boy. As we finished packing, I looked at my wife and said, “I would love to see this little boy’s face when he opens this box.”

The following year we were preparing to do another box and happened to pick up a publication for Operation Christmas Child. My wife was reading it when she called me over to look at something. There, on the bottom of page three, was a picture of a little boy hugging a teddy bear he had just received in his Christmas box. Lo and behold, on closer examination of the box in front of him, we saw all the unique items (and wrapping) we’d chosen the previous year, including the very recognizable bear. It was our box!

Barbara Eikost, retired hospice volunteers director
I have always trusted my faith but had never experienced a “spiritual event” until the morning of January 5, 1998. My sixty-one-year-old husband, Bill, had gone to the hospital on New Year’s Eve when his multiple myeloma symptoms worsened.

For the next four days he seemed to stabilize, but we realized the treatment that had worked for seven years was no longer effective.

Our son who lived nearby had been very attentive, and on Sunday the fourth, our other son in Atlanta hopped a plane for Toledo because he sensed his presence was important. Bill was delighted to have his boys with him. He was lucid, mindful of the Rose Bowl results, and seemed peaceful as friends stopped in to wish him well. My sons and I went home in the late evening.

We were awakened suddenly at 4 a.m. with a call from the hospital saying that Bill was experiencing difficulty and was asking for us. We were at his bedside in fifteen minutes. He was in great distress, trying to get oxygen and struggling to live. Our physician was present, helping us to understand what was happening.

My sons and I surrounded Bill with passionate expressions of our love and gratitude for all he had meant to us. Just as he breathed his last breath, my son literally shouted, “Mom, look!” Right outside my husband’s large hospital window on that gray January day was a vivid rainbow! There was neither rain nor sun, but this ribbon of color in the sky told us in ways that defy explanation that our beloved husband and father was being escorted from this world to a better place.

I have never questioned this experience, and I have never expected to fully understand it. I simply accept it as a remarkable expression of the gracious mystery.

Adapted from "God Stories: Inspiring Encounters with the Divine" by Jennifer Skiff. Copyright (c) 2008 by Jennifer Skiff. Reprinted by arrangement with Harmony Books, a division of Random House, Inc. For more on the book, click here.

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