The Time God Talked to Me

It was the Saturday before Easter, 1992 in San Pedro, California. I was driving with my family in our minivan down Pacific Avenue, which is a street of small shops and restaurants, two lanes of traffic in either direction and cars parked on both sides of the street. I was sitting at a red light, looking down the narrow street when I started wondering what would happen if a kid ran out between the parked cars. As I drove down the street, my wondering turned to concern. About three blocks later, I was not only convinced that a small child would run into the street, I knew it would be a little girl. I eased into the right lane of traffic, reached for my seat belt and slowed down to a crawl, much to the annoyance of the driver behind me, and prepared to jump out of the van to prevent her from running into the inside lane of traffic. Just then, a little ball of pink lace came churning into the street directly in front of my car. It took only a tap of my brakes to stop and I didn't have to jump out because her father was in hot pursuit and snatched her up just as she was even with my hood ornament. They were both gone just as quickly as they appeared. My wife at the time said, "Did you see that?" I replied, "I saw it three blocks ago." She didn't bother to ask what I meant. That wasn't the first time I'd had a brush with God, nor would it be the last. There's the time I woke up one morning convinced that I should register with the national bone marrow donor program. That thought had never entered my head before, but the compulsion was so strong that I did it later that day. I'm still waiting for THAT shoe to drop.