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There is a high hill which overlooks the little city of Rich-land Center, in south west Wisconsin where I grew up. I'll never forget the night I climbed that hill and literally ended up between a rock and a hard place. About three-fourths of the way up the hill, where the path makes a wide bend on a natural plateau, there is a large opening in the trees which allows an unobstructed view of the city below. The rock, a slab of sandstone nearly four feet high and seven or eight inches wide, lay at a 45-degree angle, about 20 feet off the path. It was leaning against a pile of smaller rocks, and it appeared to me that all that was needed was a little pull and it would be level enough to sit upon: the perfect perch from which to contemplate the view and smoke one of the cheap cigars I was carrying in my pocket. I tugged at it and quickly discovered that it was much heavier than it appeared. I pulled again, with all of my might, and it came forward, on top of me, pinning both of my legs fast to the ground. With much effort I was able to raise it a few inches off my mid-section, but I was not able to lift it high enough to free either of my legs.

After several minutes of futile pushing and straining, I became resigned to the fact that I would never be able to free myself from the rock. I began to pray and to wonder as I prayed how long it might be before someone wandered up the hill and discovered me in my predicament. I knew that workmen came up periodically to do maintenance on the telephone and radio towers on the peak, but I didn't know how often, and I began to doubt that I could survive there, exposed to the elements as I was, for more than three or four days.

It was then that I heard myself yelling for help at the top of my voice. The cry came as a reflex. I made no conscious decision to call out. I was so far above the city that, had I reflected on the wisdom of sounding a distress call, I probably would have decided that it was useless and saved my breath.

The police arrived about 10 minutes after I began to call for help. The two of them were able to lift the rock easily from my legs. They laughed at me as I tried to explain how and why I had managed to pull the rock on top of myself. I suffered this small humiliation happily and thanked them again and again for saving my life as they loaded me into the ambulance. Sometime after I was released from the hospital, with no apparent damage done to anything but my pride, I learned that it was an aquaintance of my family, an old preacher's widow who lived in a small house just over the brow of the hill, who heard my cry for help and called the police.

I now live far away from Richland Center, and I have long since given up cigars, but I have never forgotten what happened that night, and I never cease to give thanks to the one who heard my cry and delivered me from that rock and hard place.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated in loving memory of Mrs. Lester Matthews, the one whose neighborliness was the answer to my prayer for deliverance.