Where Marty Was (“Don’t Judge Me!” Part 6, Continued)

You hem me in, behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. / All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. – Psalm 139:5,16

Last week I shared a cringe-worthy story of a time when I was young, foolish, selfish, and immature. (Imagine that.)

Rebuke from the Still, Small Voice” (Don’t Judge Me!” Part 6)

Recently – 45 years later – Marty and I were sitting outside the ice cream shop in the little village near our summer home when an acquaintance came over and greeted us. “Jane” (not her name) was alone, so we invited her to sit with us. In the ensuing conversation I learned, among other things, that she’s a member of the local ski patrol on weekends in the winter.

Northern Michigan’s long winters can be either miserable or loads of un. If you enjoy snow-mobiling, ice fishing, downhill skiing, or cross-country skiing, our area is a veritable playground. On the flipside, last week I shared what’s possible if a new mother gets stuck inside all week with a new baby when the days are short, dark and cold, and it seemed the snow is flying constantly.

As Marty and I shared with Jane what life was like for us when we lived in the area year-round, Marty related the story of when he was out cross-country skiing alone in the woods one day. It would seem I wasn’t the only one who’d had a few things to learn back then …

When Marty heard “cross-country,” he assumed it meant off the road, random skiing any old place he decided to go. So, he’d headed out through the trees and off any semblance of a path, into the unknown. As he told the story, I realized it was one I had never heard before. After 50 years of marriage, this was pretty unexpected.

Unlike downhill skis, cross-country skis are not attached to the whole boot, but loosely attached to the toe. This works well when the skier is propelling himself along straight, reasonably flat ground. But when finding himself going downhill at a faster speed, toward trees that need to be dodged … well, not so much. As Marty described coming down a hill, not quite in control, toward a formidable birch tree, Jane’s eyes got big, and my jaw dropped.

“MARTY!!!” Jane half shrieked, half scolded. “Trees don’t give! We’ve had people seriously injured or killed on the slopes crashing into trees!”

All I could think of was the one notorious ski accident I remembered that had made national news. “That’s how Sonny Bono died!” I gasped. Well, obviously, Marty had survived, so I shut up and waited for the rest of the story.

As Marty continued, I had a mental image of the swiftly approaching tree and held my breath.

What happened next was a “God thing,” no doubt.

Marty had hit the tree, and as if in a dream, he felt the thud, then watched the tree explode into birchbark-encrusted powder.

My darling, dopey husband had collided with a hollow, rotted-out tree. Whether the tree had been rotten for two years or two seconds, who knows? I’d like to believe the latter, but it really doesn’t matter. Clearly it was not his time to leave this earth, or to be stranded in the snow with a broken leg, out where no one, including his clueless wife, would know where to find him.

As I was recovering from the shock of such a tale at this late season of our lives, my mind went back to that winter and was struck with the thought: Could that have been the same Saturday I was home fretting – not worried about my dear husband’s whereabouts and well-being, but totally centered on what I “needed” (wanted) at the moment?

I opted not to share the story of my own idiocy back then, but I prompted Marty to tell a couple more stories of “close calls” he’d had in his younger days. Clearly it was testimony time!

1.) When we were “dating,” Marty was driving from Springfield, Illinois, to St. Louis to see me every chance he got. In those days it was easy for us to lose track of time. One night it was about midnight when he was leaving, and I was concerned about his driving two-hours on the dark, straight, flat (boring) highway back home, especially since he seemed sleepy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just spend the night here? Mom said you could sleep in the guestroom.” Marty said he’d be fine, but I made him promise to call me when he got home. “Just let it ring twice, so I’ll know you made it, OK?”

Two hours of praying later, I heard the phone ring twice and finally went to sleep.

The “God part”: Marty told me later that he’d been driving along in the dark, full speed, when he’d randomly changed lanes for no particular reason and immediately passed a stalled car with its lights off.

2. Those were the days of the Viet Nam War, when there was still a Draft. Marty was almost finished with college, so he would soon be eligible. The “lottery” was the random selection of young men by birthdays, and Marty’s birthday was the tenth one drawn. In other words, out of 365 groups of young men, his was tenth in line to go to war. I prayed hard for his protection. He prayed for courage.

The “God part” of this story involves a series of very detailed “coincidences”: Marty’s being in the right place at the right time, which was, oddly, at home alone late New Year’s Eve, watching TV -and miraculously being awake enough to understand a “random” public service announcement from the government that came on in the wee hours of the morning. He wrote down a phone number, followed the instructions, and ended up getting deferred. The war ended two years later.

Prayer: Father, Your Word says that all the days ordained for us were written in Your book before one of them came to be. How could I not believe that? Thank You for the peace of knowing that we will not leave this planet one moment before You’re ready to call us home – and I don’t want to wait a moment longer to be with You. In Jesus’ name, amen.