Near Misses
Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”
A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.
In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.
The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.
So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.
My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.
Another near miss.
Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.
So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those neaNear Misses
Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”
A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.
In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.
The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.
So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.
My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.
Another near miss.
Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.
So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those near misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.
Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today. And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.
The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.Near Misses
Have you ever had a near miss? A time when the difference of a few inches or minutes was all tht separated you from tragedy? Friday evening, my car wouldn’t start. I was frustrated because I needed to go to church and set up the Sunday school lesson, but I wasn’t going anywhere. An online forum, of which I have been a member for more than 20 years has a “rant” page where we can air our frustrations. So I posted about my vehicle and another member said, “Perhaps God wanted you to stay home.”
A near miss? I haven’t heard of anything untoward, at least not more than usual, happening in my town. But that comment and a question posted on the online page of my home town got me thinking about near misses. Two immediately came to mind.
In the urban neighborhood where I grew up, my block had mixed zoning. Businesses graced both the north and south corners of the block with residential housing in the middle. On the north corner was a Red Cross drugstore. Our family were frequent customers. Plus, I had gotten to know the pharmacist’s daughter when she and I shared a hospital room when we were eleven. So, at the age of twelve, I frequently hung out at the drugstore until closing at 9:00 on pleasant Friday evenings and Mr. Perlberg didn’t object. One Friday night, at about 8:30, it was just after dark and I ducked into the drugstore. I noticed, but did not pay much attention to two men who were lounging against the north wall of the store. At about 8:50, I said goodnight to Mr. Perlberg and headed home. The two men were still outside. The next morning as we ate breakfast and listened to the radio, which was always on, we heard the shocking news that the drugstore had been robbed. When Mr. Perlberg had not returned home by midnight, his wife had called the police who found him bound and gagged in the storeroom. Money and drugs were missing. He told the police two men had forced their way in as he was locking up, pulled a gun, and tied him up. Two men. And what if I had stayed just five more minutes until Mr. Perlberg was locking the door as I had so many times before? It was a near miss. And my father laid down the law that I was never to visit the drugstore after dark ever again.
The next event happened a few years later. I was in high school and had a job as a postal assistant at the post office downtown. On Friday nights, we teen-age employees worked until the mail truck from Milwaukee picked up all the out-of-town mail, which was 9:00 PM or slightly later. The post office was just a little over a mile from my home and I would walk home after work. My father, who at that time was a cabbie and therefore knew most of the darker parts of the city, had given me strict instructions as to the route I was to follow. I was to head south on Wisconsin Avenue, a brightly lit and well-traveled street, past St. Luke’s Hospital, then turn west on 14th Street, another well-lit and traveled thoroughfare and finally back north a half block to home. But I thought I knew better. Instead, I made the southerly part of my walk along Main Street where I admired the mansions that fronted on Lake Michigan. I turned west on 12th Street then cut diagonally across the St.Luke’s staff parking lot to 13th Street and finally, south a half block on Villa Street to my home. Not only was this route more interesting, it cut a good three blocks off my walk.
So, as my family and I ate our breakfast on another Saturday morning, listening to the radio, we heard horrifying news. A nurse at St. Luke’s Hospital had become ill during her shift. Her supervisor sent her home. The hospital security guard checked her out at 9:15 that night. When she did not show up at her home, her husband called the police. The police found her car in the staff parking lot. The driver’s door was open, her keys on the ground, and her purse on the passenger seat. Later they had found her mutilated body near the 14th Street beach.
My Dad must have read the look on my face. I had walked through that parking lot within minutes either before or after the abduction. When I confessed where I had been, he hit the ceiling, and rightfully so. I had defied his explicit instructions and walked into the vicinity of a horrific crime. He wanted to call the police, but I had neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary. I was not a witness. Thereafter, Dad declared I was not to walk home after work in the dark but to take a cab home.
Another near miss.
Yet there have been other times in my life that have not been near misses. The deer that ran in front of my car. (Three of them!) Other car accidents. A tumble down some stairs that on one occasion resulted in a fractured kneecap and on another a dislocated elbow. Still, as I type other near misses come to mind. The ovarian cancer that miraculously was confined within a membrane so that I did not need chemotherapy. The time I was almost dragged off the ground by a runaway theater batten. Or when I was six and hit by a car but suffered only scrapes and a concussion. And I am sure there are others I don’t even know about.
So the question is why? Why God’s hand of protection, even when I was doing something I was not supposed to do, during some events but not others? And yes, I am firmly convinced that God protected me in those near misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.
Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today. And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.
The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.r misses. I don’t believe in coincidence. I am grateful for those times of grace and continue to thank Him whenever they come to mind.
Is my car malfunctioning another near miss? I had intended to get a fish dinner at Culver’s on Friday night. Instead, I ate at home. My Sunday school teacher will have to create her own lesson plan this week since I could not set up the lesson. Plus, I missed out on the youth group carwash today. And I will be relying on a fried to pick up my brother and I to get to church on Sunday.
The truly amazing thing is that I am not fretting. If the car’s battery simply died, a jump start from the mechanic will set things right. If it’s the starter that has gone kaput, well, that will be more expensive but, again, it can be fixed. Maybe this whole scenario is just God’s way of making me stop and remember what He has done for me and to give Him thanks and praise.
Kathy Kexel 