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I was savoring one of those rare winter weekends when I am able to get away, on my own, to our little farm in southwest Wisconsin. I had spent three relaxing days working on odd jobs, shopping for supplies and furnishings, and watching movies with only our dog Eli for company. Weekends like these are special to me, not only for the freedom and solitude, but also for how happy I am to be back together with the rest of the family when they are over. Absence does, indeed, make the heart grow fonder.

The final part of my weekend was to be a forty-mile trip to visit my parents and go to worship services with my mom on Sunday morning. It was beginning to snow when I woke up and got ready to go, but I called ahead and told Mom I would pick her up in time for church.

Our farm is located in the valley, surrounded by hills. The shortest route to my parents' was over the hills to the highway, so I started out in plenty of time to travel slowly and safely. The car climbed the first ridge, past sandstone bluffs on the right and a forty-foot, unguarded drop-off on the left. I always drive that stretch of road carefully, but even with the front-wheel drive on our new car, it was obvious that I couldn't make the trip, over any more of the several ridges and valleys, safely in that snow. I thought of the dog, alone at the farm with no one to take care of him if I should make it to my parents' and be unable to get back, and I turned the car around in the driveway of the farm at the top of the hill and started back down.

The first thing I remember is being aware that the road was much more slippery going down than coming up. The second is that I was acutely aware that there was no guardrail along the side of the road with the forty-foot drop into a ravine. The snow was several inches deep by that time, and no snowplows had been through on an early Sunday morning. I instinctively began to pump my brakes to slow my speed on that steep, unguarded part of the hill. But the more I pumped, the more the car slid to the right, closer and closer to the embankment, until the front end was pointing directly toward the edge, and I knew that if I didn't stop, I would sail right over the edge and dive, nose first, into the ravine.

I had been talking to God since I started out, as I often do when I'm alone, relaying my plans to take it slow and easy, worrying about the conditions, deciding to turn around, and praying to make it safely down the hill. As my car slid nose first toward that embankment, and no adjustment in the steering made any difference, and I felt the right front tire go off the pavement onto the gravel shoulder, my plea was, "Oh, God! No! No!" and as I said it, my right foot did what I knew not to do: pressed hard on the brake, and my left foot joined it, and the steering wheel responded under my hands, and I was able to steer the car away from the edge, back onto the road.

I stopped there, in the middle of the road, with my heart pounding and my ears ringing, for at least a minute before I was able to stop shaking enough to go on. In my mind, I realized that I had finally done what was necessary. Our new car had antilock brakes, which are not intended to be pumped, but stepped on firmly. Never having used them before, I had forgotten that detail. But my heart knew that, when I was in danger, I had called out to God, and God answered my prayer. It wasn't my mind that made me step on the brakes with both feet, when I had been taught never to do that. I thanked God all the way back to the farm, and for hours afterward as I sat in the living room, snuggled in blankets, cuddling with the dog, safe!