A huge flatbed truck loaded with firewood rolled up the steep hill and ground to a stop beside where my husband Richard was working. The driver leaned out the window and asked him to put wood under her rear wheels because of the poor brakes. Then she requested directions to the house that had ordered the wood.
Unfortunately, Richard said, that house is at the bottom.
Okay, she sighed. Guess I’ll have to turn around.
Noticing that the truck’s bed was the same diameter as the hill’s turnaround, Richard started to suggest that she back down instead. But at that moment, she backed over the wood behind her wheels, the impact killed the engine, and, to Richard’s horror, she careened backwards down the hill towards some cars parked below—screaming at the top of her lungs.
Helpless, he began to pray.
As he did, the truck changed course midstream and began moving away from the cars. It approached the house she had been looking for, the wheel on the driver’s side hit the curb, the truck turned over, and the door flew open, expelling the woman, who, instead of falling towards the ground, flew out the door and up into the air—like she was being lifted. Just as the truck turned over, she landed safely. And the firewood rolled into the driveway of the very house she had been seeking.
Although her injuries were minor, the woman returned several days later, accusing Richard of the accident.
Lady, he said, I think God saved your life, and you should be grateful.