Coincidence? Not.

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My mother, who lived most of her life as an atheist but died a Christian, would have called it “coincidence.” That was her favorite description for anything lacking a logical explanation.

Luke was 10 when we started back to Texas from Montana. For Texas folks, Montana winters are brutal and “summers” are weak. When we arrived in August with our Texas tans, everyone asked where we were from. Five months later on January 1, we headed back to Texas. It was -12F. When we got to Jackpot, Nevada, it was still snowing, but Luke and I walked around with no coats because 32F felt warm.

Our route took us through Reno. It was still snowing. We stopped briefly for gas and food. Miles later, I wondered if we should have stayed. Snow grew deeper with every mile, but we were crossing the Dreaded 40-mile Desert and there was no place to stop. I hid my anxiety from Luke and told myself that as we continued south, it would get warmer.

There were sandwich boards signs along the interstate, but I couldn’t read them. They were covered with snow. And I was still tense from the frightening signs in Montana’s Blue Mountains: “Watch For Ice Heaves.” What was an ice heave? Where did I watch for one? Would it race across the road in front of us? Would it fall from the sky? Would it fly from a tree and smash our windshield? What if there were deep pits in the road and we fell into one? Why put up a sign warning about ice heaves without explaining what they were?

So…I ignored the sandwich board signs, although a diminutive pocket of common sense nudged me: suppose the signs were warnings that the interstate was closed? Would I get arrested?

In another of Mom’s “coincidences,” a semi-trailer truck parked on the side of the road pulled out in front of us. I followed that big rig’s tire tracks all the way across the desert to the next town. I knew that if I lost that truck, we would get stuck in a snow drift. By this time, I was fairly certain the signs warned: “Interstate Closed.”

When the semi pulled off on the exit to Lovelock, Nevada, I pulled off, laughing when a string of headlights followed. Other drivers either couldn’t read the signs or had ignored them. Not a single pair of headlights continued straight.

My truck made it through town until it got directly in front of our former pastor’s house. It stopped in the middle of the road and would not budge. Pastor Ted and Jenny Kern were kind and lovely (and still are). They invited us to spend the night. They said the interstate was closed, motels were full, and people were camped out inside the police station.

The next day when enough snow had been cleared, I drove to the local supermarket. The interstate was still closed. I couldn’t leave for Texas. Nevada State Troopers were stationed at the interstate ramps turning drivers back.

Coincidence? As I stood in the snow, arms outstretched, praying and asking God what to do, friends of ours from a gold mine drove up. “Hey, girl,” Ed hollered. “Need a job? Clo broke her arm. We need some help.”

Luke was ecstatic. What boy wouldn’t love roaming the desert and exploring a gold mine? We drove 40 miles out to the mine, Ed’s truck behind ours so he could push us forward every time my truck stopped.

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More coincidence? Months later, Clo sent me into town for the mail. I parked in front of the post office, collected the mail, and got back into the truck. The gear shift lever fell to the pavement. Not knowing what else to do, Luke and I walked over to the Kern’s house for assistance. Jenny called a church friend to fix the truck, painfully shy Thomas Logue, a strong Christian who loved helping people and fixing things—and could repair or build almost anything.

A few months later, Pastor Ted married us. Luke gained the most wonderful stepfather any child could have in Tom, who died of cancer in 2014. The Marine Corps sent Luke home from Iraq for the memorial service.

Coincidence, Mom? I think now you would agree with me that there are no coincidences. They are all God incidents.

(Pastor Theodore Kern pastors Crescent Valley Baptist Church in Battle Mountain Nevada, along with three mission churches in outlying areas. Jenny just retired from her teaching career to spend more time with grandchildren and also plays the piano for church services.)

Blog WheelerSnow

Let’s Consider

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Let’s consider a wagon train traveling from the east coast to California during the ‘49er Gold Rush, a distance of between 2,600, and 3,000 miles which took months to complete. No, let’s don’t.

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We have just survived a bit over two weeks with no internet and still have no phone or phone number. It’s painful.

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Lost communication gives the isolated person the same loss of power feeling as going down the road in a vehicle and having the steering wheel break off in your hands. You can turn the wheel, shake the wheel, or throw it out the window with the same lack of response.

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One thing for which I am endlessly grateful is that with God—loss of communication is not possible. We don’t need a phone or internet to talk to the Creator of the universe and to hear His still, small voice. It sounds in the roar of the sea, the breath of the wind, joyful bird songs.

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God answers back in glorious artwork in the sky, the majestic rise of mountains, the soft, cold touch of snow, and the light, shadows, and colors of the unique and wonderful world He created for us. We are never sans communication when we open our hearts to God.

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Not Obvious to Me

When I was four, my worried mom took me to an eye doctor. He asked her why she thought I couldn’t see, and she explained that I didn’t color between the lines in my coloring books. I sat there thinking, “Oh, that’s what those lines are for.”

What was obvious to just about everyone else was not obvious to me. No one had explained that the object of coloring books was to color within the lines. To me, coloring books offered exciting pages of opportunity to create magic with my favorite colors. Lines were unimportant.

When I was in first grade, my teacher scolded me for not coloring tree trunks brown and the sky blue. I feel vindicated now in not noticing the brown-blue fact that was obvious to my teacher: do you know how few tree trunks in Scotland are brown and how rarely the sky is blue?

Brigadoon

When I was six, my grandmother ordered me to quit climbing up the hill to play with the children there. They were my friends and I didn’t understand the edict, especially after Grandmother’s long-winded explanation ending with, “Why do you think we fought the Civil War?” I had never even heard of the Civil War. When I sought clarification from Mom, she explained that the children up on the hill were black. I had never noticed. Friends are friends. Color is unimportant.

At my last newspaper job, I got sent to interview a visiting Scottish minister because the person who had been assigned the story missed work. When I asked with concern what was wrong with her, the boss fixed me with a hard stare and said, “You don’t know she’s an alcoholic? Everyone knows. Where have you been?”

As usual, I had been sheltering from the obvious. Obvious is not always joyful or friendly. This time, being clueless proved a blessing. The subject I interviewed is now my husband author Alan T McKean who writes exciting, historically accurate time travel novels. (https://www.amazon.com/Alan-T.-McKean/e/B00BR1PM5Y/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0)

More recently, we were invited to “tea.” Being Texan and accustomed to iced tea on the porch, I found myself eating three complete meals that evening: one before leaving home for what I assumed would be hot tea, once at “tea” which proved a complete meal, and the third at a friend’s house who had invited us for dinner that night. Not observing the obvious can be fun…but filling.

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I have learned that being oblivious to the obvious frees the mind from contentious thoughts about things that are wrong in this world which we are powerless to fix. Besides; I’m in good standing with Job, my hero of faith who proclaimed, “From where then does wisdom come? It is hidden from the eyes of all living, but God understand its way and knows its place.” (Job 18:23-23)

I’m content to leave hidden things to God (things hidden to me) Who made a way for the rain and a path for the thunderbolt. Obvious has never been my friend.