In the summer of 2018, my dad died. Twice.
The first time, he was alone, slumped over the wheel of his truck. A swarm of good Samaritans revived him. One smashed through the glass of his passenger door. Several others hoisted him onto the sidewalk. A nursing student skilled in CPR restored his breathing. Emergency workers shocked his heart back to life and sped him to the hospital.
Dad was almost eighty-three, his health declining. His rescuers—a group of average people passing by—managed an uncommon feat. Even an experienced emergency room team would have struggled to do it.
Some of our family believed God had started a miracle in Dad’s rescue. Soon he would regain consciousness, and the miracle would be complete. Why else would God have allowed it?
I wasn’t so sure. Two weeks earlier, I had talked with my dad about his heart condition. He didn’t want procedures to extend his life. “If the Lord wants to take me, it’s my time,” he had said.
God isn’t predictable. I too wondered what he was doing. Dad might die before I reached him. Or he might wake up and go home a changed man. As I tossed my clothes into a suitcase, I braced for whatever awaited on the other side of my plane ride.