God has a way of allowing us to be in the right place at the right time.
I was walking down a dimly lit street late one evening when I heard muffled
screams coming from behind a clump of bushes. Alarmed, I slowed down to
listen, and panicked when I realized that what I was hearing were the
unmistakable sounds of a struggle: heavy grunting, frantic scuffling, and
tearing of fabric.
Only yards from where I stood, a woman was being attacked. Should I get
involved? I was frightened for my own safety, and cursed myself for having
suddenly decided to take a new route home that night. What if I became
another statistic? Shouldn't I just run to the nearest phone and call the
police?
Although it seemed an eternity, the deliberations in my head had taken only
seconds, but already the girl's cries were growing weaker. I knew I had to
act fast. How could I walk away from this? No, I finally resolved, I could
not turn my back on the fate of this unknown woman, even if it meant
risking
my own life.
I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I don't know where I found the
moral courage and physical strength -- but once I had finally resolved to
help the girl, I became strangely transformed. I ran behind the bushes and
pulled the assailant off the woman. Grappling, we fell to the ground, where
we wrestled for a few minutes until the attacker jumped up and escaped.
Panting hard, I scrambled upright and approached the girl, who was crouched
behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I could barely see her outline,
but
I could certainly sense her trembling shock. Not wanting to frighten her
further, I at first spoke to her from a distance. "It's okay," I said
soothingly. "The man ran away. You're safe now." There was a long pause and
then I heard the words, uttered in wonder, in amazement. "Dad, is that
you?"
And then, from behind the tree, out stepped my youngest daughter,
Katherine.
