My Journey

Saved From Fire and Flood

by Shanda Miller as told to Linda M. Freemyer

Driving in January down the wintry hill to a stop sign, I plan what work to accomplish at the church this morning. Buckets of paints and materials are ready for refreshing spirits with a new wall mural of Jesus. My children are inside the blue Skylark with me.

In seconds, an uncontrollable scream slides with the car across Highway 59, and we plunge twenty feet into a creek. After hitting a fencepost and tree, the car rests on its driver’s side. My three-year-old, Anna, begins yelling, “Why didn’t you stop?! Why didn’t you stop?!”

Sara, five, dangling in her car seat on the passenger’s side -- now topside -- yells too. Smoke or fumes fill the Skylark. A fire! shrieks my mind. I shut the motor off with effort. My car seat buckle wants to imprison me with my weight upon it. With rapid effort, I am loose.

As I try to move so I can release the girls, the car begins to move. I look at the water. I hate water! My only view besides water is weeds and the sky. Bad plan. Where will we land if it moves? We need help! Where is my cell phone?

Praying aloud helps bring calm to us, but not heat; we are rapidly becoming cold. I find my cell phone and pray for coverage.

“Joy, we won’t be in today,” I cheerfully say to my mother-in-law, then hang up. Good. No explanation to alarm her. My thoughts race. Now if I can just get help. How do I call the state patrol?

I quickly punch in my husband’s number. “Andrew, how do you call the state patrol? I went through the stop sign at the highway; we’re down in a creek bed. All I can see is water and weeds. I can’t get the girls out of the car seats because the car is up on its side and it starts moving!”

“Call *55,” says Andrew. He immediately races from his job in St. Joseph to the accident scene, south of Fillmore.

Dialing *55, I tell the Missouri Highway Patrol our predicament and location. Meanwhile, a man in a plow truck stops at the embankment and spots the wreck. His face peers through the back window and turns white. Oh no. She’s dead! he thinks. He yells down, “Are you all right?”

“I can’t get the children out!” I yell back. Panic is under control because of prayer, my morning devotion, and my nurse’s experience. Alarmed, he calls the sheriff, then waits worriedly. At least someone is near. A few more cars collect, but I cannot see them.

As I sit on the cold driver’s window, waiting, Isaiah 43 is suddenly on my mind. It was my morning devotion.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee (Isaiah 43:2, KJV).

I try to calm myself. So far, the car isn’t burning. I was able to shut it off. So I trust God’s promise the water will stay out.

“I spy something green,” I say to Sara and Anna. I have to keep them busy.

“Sara, can you breathe OK?” I question my daughter. “Are you OK? Do you hurt anyplace?”

“It hurts, Mom,” Sara replies, wriggling. The seat belt leaves marks as its imprisoning pinches her skin. There is nothing to do but let her hang helplessly.
Anna’s blue eyes are wide at the dirty water; a new fear of water is growing. Yet the car is miraculously sealed so my shivering family is dry.

“What do we want to do the rest of the day?” I question the girls, pretending enthusiasm. “A movie? Lunch?”

Sara and Anna believe a warm lunch plus a movie at our warm home is good enough. A half hour passes with a tearful, fearful child and another extremely uncomfortable one. I have had an innate fear of water since infancy, yet I feel reasonably calm.

Andrew races to the Fillmore exit, then to the corner, before the Missouri State Patrol gets there. His over six-foot frame pulls the car, teetering, toward the cement wall of the culvert. Assessing its safety, he slips. The car refuses to release its shocked victims, but Andrew forces the back door open. He cuts the seat belt, releasing Sara. Suddenly free, she monkey-wraps herself around her hero dad with mighty strength. Andrew peels her off to freedom. “I have to get Anna out, too. You’ll have to get down,” he tells his little girl. Andrew leaves her with the strangers atop the embankment.

Andrew leans over the water putting his weight partly on the car. He unbuckles our dazed Anna from the horrible threat of water. The fear remains for months.

I scramble over the console, pulling myself up through the back door. Andrew pulls, completely freeing me from the water vault. We three are all so cold. Later, warming in the van, Sara says, “Mommy, I didn’t know grown ups could scream.”

Screams, water, and weeds leave their memory within my two innocent, happy pre-schoolers. In that quick, glimmery slide, they gain fear of traveling without multiple wraps and blankets, and of water. They also gain a true, real-life hero in the large blonde man known as Daddy. The true hero is the One above, who cares enough to protect His children.

That Sabbath, Andrew tells our congregation about the accident. “Daddy’s crying!” exclaim my little daughters in the pew. He recounts the experience with amazed gratitude for a God who treasured His children enough to protect them from fire and flood, as His Word says.

Linda M. Freemyer attends the St. Joseph CoG7 and lives in Maryville, MO.

The Bible Advocate Press grants the user permission only to download and print this article. If the user wishes to make multiple copies, permission must be granted by the Bible Advocate Press.