Late one night in 1995, about two o'clock, I woke from deep sleep. A thought was nudging me: "Unplug the computer."

    "Why?" I wondered. There were no sounds of electrical storm outside, and I had a surge protector. I was not in the habit of unplugging my computer except when I moved (which was frequently). No answering idea came. So I didn't know why.

    I obeyed the thought anyway, fumbled my way out of bed in the darkness, walked across the few feet from bed to desk. Kneeling down, I groped under the desk for the thick cable that plugged into the upper wall socket. It was the main connector from whose source of power all my other significant computer connections branched off (printer, monitor, the mechanical brain itself). My fingers found it, yanked it out of the socket. Then I felt my way back to bed and gratefully plunged down again, back into the warm covers, back into deep sleep.

    As was my habit, I awoke early the next morning. I jumped out of bed, dressed, and sat before my computer. Time now was so precious, every day borrowed against my unknown quantity of remaining days. Every home I lived in was a borrowed home, a place to fire up that computer and make yet a little more progress on the book by day, a bed for my weary body that night. Because the only way I could finish this project was in hiding, and there was no way to know how long I could stay hidden.


    I flipped the computer's ON switch, and the monitor's. They should have instantly whirred to life. But this morning neither one did. I flipped them each back to the OFF position, then back to ON. Again no sign of response.  Something was wrong.

    I sat staring at the screen, baffled. Then I remembered I had unplugged the computer in the middle of the night. I bent down and plugged it back into the usual place. I flipped the ON switches again. And again. They still didn't work. I tried plugging into the other, lower set of holes on that outlet. This time when I flipped to ON each component machine commenced the sudden chatty sequence of clicks and hums that told me all were now awake and running.

    Now I was not nearly so interested in getting back to work on the book as in finding out why the upper socket hadn't worked. I crawled under the table on my hands and knees with a lamp to get a closer look.

    And gasped in horror. A smudge of black defaced the outside of that entryway for two metal prongs of connector. Now I understood. A terrible jolt of electrical power had silently blasted into that line some moment after my night waking. It had melted down the wires, left that telltale black trace even on the white plastic's outside. It would have also fried all circuits of the hardware half of my writer's brain if the cable had been plugged in.

    Ever since that night I've had peace of mind about whether writing this book is really God's will for me. After that, I knew for sure all I had to do to complete this immense project was the necessary work. God would provide the necessary miracles.

    "Not by might, nor by power, but by my SPIRIT saith the Lord of hosts." - Zechariah 4:6


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Copyright 1998-2001 by Carla Emery.  You may reprint this page, including illustrations, as part of a review or discussion, or in the form of a newsletter or magazine article, so long as you include the book’s title, author’s name, and where it may be purchased - and make no text changes. All other rights reserved.