My husband Alan is a long-distance truck driver and it seems as if Al is on the road every holiday. With our anniversary coming up, I decided to ride with him to Omaha, Nebraska - a four-day haul. Strangly, our anniversary was January 22, our truck was number 22, and it was 22 days old. I've always considered that a lucky number, and it was.
We were having a problem with the sensor plugs, which kept shutting down. But a mechanic fixed the problem and we were on our way. It was the 22nd, our anniversary, nine o'clock at night. I was partly asleep when I heard a man's boice - not Al's - say, "Sandra, lay down and be still. Don't be afraid."
Suddenly, Alan was fighting to control the rig. And then we rolled, over and over like clothes in a dry. I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head and I was sucked into a whirling tunnel. I didn't know if I was dead or alive because I felt no pain. It was dark and silent, a grey fog. A man appeared. I couldn't see his face but he spoke in a soft voice and held out his hands.
"Take my hands and I'll ease your pain," he said.
"No," I shouted. "I can't go. I'm not finished being a mother!" The man vanished and soon my head began to pound with intense pain. It spread to my body and I could hear Alan groaning. Amazingly, we were both spared.
It took four hours until we were lifted from the wrech. All that time we talked of our children, how we met, what we'd do when we got out and our love for one another. We spent three months in the intensive care unit in Kearney, Nebraska, but we're alive and well now to tell the story.
Who told me to lie down? I wonder. I might never know, but I thank the Lord for the message that probably saved my life.
--Sandra Ann Caslake, British Columbia, Canada--
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