The new sanctuary of the Bettendorf, Iowa, church where I pastored was nearing completion. As we drove up one Saturday afternoon, my wife and I saw smoke pouring from the open windows.
My wife called the fire department from our house next door, while I ran into the church to try to stop the blaze. Inside I threw a flattened box over the flames, stomping on top as fast as I could. This was a losing battle.
Then a lone figure jumped through a window at the other end of the sanctuary. Through the billowing smoke, I couldn’t make out who it was. I worked at my end, and while I had to run to the window periodically, desperate for air, my partner moved through the thickening smoke as if he had no need for oxygen whatsoever.
At last firefighters arrived, and the building was saved with minimal damage. The flames never touched our house. Amid news and police reports, I found no mention of my mysterious helper, so I simply thanked the One who must have sent him.
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