Years ago when I was in college here, I discovered a stack of LOOK magazines downstairs in the library. As I remember LOOK usually had a lot of photos, which I found interesting. One of the articles focused on a team of medical people from Loma Linda who regularly travelled down into Inter and South America to bring medical attention to people who wouldn’t get any if it weren’t for them—and a few who flew in from other medical schools. The article quoted one of the women as saying, “Your medicine is the same, but the touch of your hands is different.” That is a quote I’ve never forgotten. Imagine: a touch you can never forget. Ever had one? What do you think the touch of an angel would feel like? 

I had just finished my Junior year at Andrews and had at last agreed to canvass the following summer, only I needed a car which I didn’t have. I’d been praying about getting one when one day—I think it was the Holy Spirit who spoke to me—“What kind of car do you think God is going to provide?” I figured an old-as-dirt Buick that burned oil which I wouldn’t really like. I think the Lord must have smiled and shaken His head. 

I was scheduled to be at Andrews the following Wednesday, then in Racine, Wisconsin, on Thursday for a field class in evangelism with Don Jacobson. My mother graciously volunteered to increase the amount she owed a local bank, which put a real limit on the kind of car I could afford. 

We spent that weekend driving around Flint fruitlessly looking for a car. Tuesday morning we were driving up to Vassar to the dealership where the father of one of my friends worked. On the way, going through Millington I suddenly felt hands on both sides of my face turning my head to look beside a car dealership at a Chevy parked beside the building. I had my mother pull over and I went into the business to ask about that green Chevy. 

It belonged to one of the mechanics, and yes, it was for sale—at an affordable price! I immediately liked it and ended up buying it, having it serviced, and then driving to Andrews the next day to pick up my roommate and head out Thursday morning. I named it Betsy, and Betsy taught me many things about God that I needed to know. But those hands that guided me then: warm, soft, yet with incredible strength within—so memorable. 

That was the first time. The next time was years later, on a pleasantly warm, beautiful day in Michigan. 

Two others and I were driving north on I-75 just south of the Zillwaukee bridge near Saginaw. We were playing highway alphabet, and I was winning when suddenly, those hands were on my face, turning my head to look ahead—at a flatbed semi sitting there absolutely still: the bridge was up, and traffic was at a standstill. At 75 mph, all I had time to do was flip the steering wheel left and then right. The car spun out and stalled. I felt someone staring at me. It was the flatbed driver with an absolutely pale face. “Are you OK?” “I think so,” I replied. I started the car and pulled around behind the truck, which was when I realized that, thanks to that angel, we had been seconds from being killed. I wonder if it was the same angel? 

One day, in a better place, I hope to meet that angel—or perhaps both of them—whose touch, guided by our Heavenly Father, changed the course of my life. I’m going to say a big thank you and give the biggest hug I can. Thank You, Heavenly Father, for the life-saving ministry of angels!