miracle: n. an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs

tale: n. a series of events or facts told or presented

Some tales—the tall ones—need to be set aside and forgotten. Other tales may be shared for a good laugh. Then there are the tales about ordinary people and their extraordinary experiences. Those are the ones that need to be preserved and recorded, written down for others and future generations to read and know. This tale is one of those—the tale of a miracle.

The year was 1982. The date, January 2. We had just entered the new year. To say my family brought that particular year in with a bang is a major understatement.

Christmas, just a few days earlier, was a happy, joyful one. Our son, who attended college in southern California, came home for the holidays. The six of us, including our three daughters, drove eastward from our home on the Oregon coast to visit extended family in Oregon’s Willamette Valley.

As the saying goes, “All good things must come to an end.” Christmas break was over; my son needed to return to sunny southern Cal. Our return trip home was set to coincide with his early evening plane flight. After delivering him to the airport, we planned to drive westward, ninety minutes and ninety miles away.

Our car, a classic boat of a station wagon, had been acting up on the way to the airport. It was bad enough that my husband decided it would be better to drive back to my parents instead, a shorter distance of forty-five miles.

We never could have imagined what awaited us seventeen miles down the road.

As we left the airport, day’s light began to fade. At the same time, snow started falling. Heading back to Mom and Dad’s felt like a good plan, as the tan-colored beast of a car continued misbehaving. With each passing mile our means of transportation felt less and less reliable as it became more and more recalcitrant. When my husband stepped on the gas pedal, the sluggish car balked, refusing to move forward easily at any rate of speed.

The further we went, the harder the snow fell. And the more the car malfunctioned. Before long, wind drove the snow sideways. It could not be called a “dusting.” We were in the middle of a massive snowstorm with all the indicators of a developing blizzard.

Seventeen miles from the airport and still quite a distance away from our hopeful destination, the car stopped. Period.

Darkness hadn’t taken over–yet. We were able to see the small, local cemetery right across the road from us, an identifying landmark.   

The route we chose wasn’t a freeway but is usually well-traveled. That night, the road was completely empty without a car in sight. Traffic was non-existent.  Apparently, the locals had listened to the weather and knew what was coming, so they hunkered down in the safety and warmth of their homes. 

The area is farmland, much of it filled with vast acres of rye grass farms. The homes of these farmers, along with their barns, storage, and equipment sheds, sit a distance away from the road, far from the sound of traffic. No houses were nearby. We had come to a stop out in the middle of nowhere.

In a time before cell phones, we were stranded. In the middle of a crippling snowstorm. With three girls–an almost-fourteen-year-old, a six-year-old, and one barely four. We weren’t prepared in any way, shape, or form to spend the night in those circumstances. We didn’t even have a spare blanket or flashlight in the car.

I have no idea how long we sat, trying to decide what to do—what we could do. By then, it was completely dark. The air temperature inside the car began to drop. The seriousness of the situation became palpable. It became apparent help wasn’t coming.

Through the falling snow, we could see the light of a farmhouse. My husband made the decision to walk in that direction, seeking help. Granted, without a flashlight and the snow quickly piling up on the road, he risked getting lost, but the options were limited–as in next to none. 

Suddenly, without any warning–the lights of a vehicle shone through the snowfall, slowly coming down the road toward us, right before he set out on foot! My husband got out of the car and waved his hands. Alas, the truck with its horse trailer did not stop but continued on.

Unbeknownst to us, they drove down the road and found a place to turn around.

Help had arrived.

A local family, on their way home, loaded us into their truck. In order to accommodate the five of us, the father and his son gave up their seats in the warmth of the cab and rode, subjected to the elements, in the bed of the truck. We were transported to their home where they welcomed us, fed us, and gave us a warm place to sleep.

Recently, my oldest daughter, the almost-fourteen-year-old in 1982, brought up memories of that event. Hers are the most vivid of the three girls. She remembers the car stalling out before completely dying near the cemetery, the darkness, worsening blizzard, and feeling the concern and worry her father and I had. She remembers “the truck that came out of nowhere,” rescuing us.

“I believe it was truly a miracle, like something you would see in a Hallmark movie. The kindness from a stranger is hard to find today. He didn’t have to stop. He didn’t have to open his home up to strangers. Or he could have been a serial killer. I think about it almost every year around Thanksgiving.” The serial killer aspect is not something I’ve considered before, but she does have a point. We all piled in, without hesitation.

She recalls sleeping on the floor and the Christmas tree at our host’s house. All three girls have memories of the father of the family taking them to the barn where they were shown the horses, goats, and other animals. They remember drinking goat milk, a first and only experience. I will never forget the warmth of the lady of the house as she shared her home and holiday leftovers.

The area received four inches of snow on that date and a whole lot of additional snow in the following days. Activities were at a crawl on the Willamette Valley floor until things thawed. Roads and highways had turned into ice skating rinks.

My brother-in-law braved the icy, snowy roads the next day. He picked us up, delivered us to our original destination (my parents), and helped my husband get the car to a shop where the carburetor was repaired—a simple fix in most circumstances.  

According to any definition, my family shared as the main characters in a miracle on that potentially fateful day in January, 1982. It was a miracle that one sole vehicle appeared in the midst of a blizzard and saved us when we had no capability of helping or saving ourselves. That miracle included a family, acting from the kindness of their heart, who willingly put themselves out for strangers. And ultimately, God’s design and timing of it all—miraculous. He had His hand and watchful eye over us with an outcome that resulted in nothing more than a bit of inconvenience.

What would have happened if that special family hadn’t come to our aid at that exact point in time? I can’t even imagine.

In a hurry to get back on track with our lives, I am certain we did not thank those who were our Godsend enough or appropriately. After all these years, my family remembers the heroes whose names we don’t even know. My prayer is that they have been blessed beyond measure.    

Why did it happen? I’ve thought about that. I feel God gives us experiences beyond our abilities and capabilities to fix or control so that He can reveal Himself. Without a doubt, His love, care, and provision were evident in our helpless state.

I travel that same route often. To this day, every time I pass by the cemetery where we were stranded, I remember. And I am forever grateful to my Heavenly Father.

And this is the tale of my family’s “New Year’s Miracle.”