Page 413 – Guideposts Articles

An Answered Prayer That Changed Two Strangers’ Lives

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Diana Aydin

When a rabbi claims one amazing story forever changed the way he prays, I can’t help but take notice. In an online video, Rabbi Yoel Gold of Beis Naftali Synagogue in Los Angeles shared an incredible true tale from his aunt Betsy, one that altered the lives of the people involved and gave even this learned scholar of the Torah new insight into the power of prayer.

I wanted to know more, so I called him up.

Storytelling is obviously a part of any rabbi or minister’s job. Why was this story different?

I’m always looking for a good story, so my father-in-law stays on the lookout for me. Last year, he said, “Yoel, you have to hear this amazing thing that happened to Betsy.” Betsy is his sister, my aunt through marriage.

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I gave Aunt Betsy a call. What she told me left me completely in tears. I connected with it so deeply, it really changed the way I prayed. When I pray now, it’s more real. It’s much more real.

Take me back to the beginning…

It all started in July 2014, during the Israel-Gaza conflict, which was called Operation Protective Edge. When there’s a war in Israel, there’s this hotline that Americans can call to get the name of a soldier fighting in the Israeli Army to pray for.

My aunt and her husband, Simon, live in Beverly Hills, but they also own an apartment in Jerusalem. They identify very strongly with Israel and want to be supportive any way they can. My aunt called the hotline and was given the name of a soldier. She wrote it down and posted it on her kitchen cabinet.

Wait, the kitchen cabinet?

She has her favorite quotes taped on her kitchen cabinet, a collection of different things that are meaningful to her. She would pray for the soldier every morning because she’d walk into her kitchen and see his name right away. She doesn’t have any other names on the cabinet—he was the first and only soldier she ever prayed for. Barak ben Orna—Barak, son of Orna.

Barak, son of Orna? That’s it? No last name?

She wasn’t sent a last name, to protect the identity of the soldier. But how many Baraks, son of Orna, are in the Israeli Army who are fighting in Gaza? Only a few thousand troops entered Gaza, so the chances of another Barak, son of Orna, fighting there were very, very slim.

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My aunt never stopped praying for Barak, even after the war was over. This went on for nine months. Then, last summer, Aunt Betsy and Uncle Simon went to Israel for a visit.

What made them go just then?

The trip wasn’t really planned, it was more of a spur-of-the-moment thing. While they were there, they decided to visit Herzliya for the day. It’s a beautiful city overlooking the Mediterranean and they had never been. It was around lunchtime and they were hungry.

There were two kosher restaurants in the area. Aunt Betsy was debating between Meat and Wine Co. and another place. But she remembered hearing from a friend that the food was more interesting at Meat and Wine Co. So she said, “Let’s go there.” Everything was, as some like to call it, coincidental.

What happened at the restaurant?

It’s a two-story place, and Aunt Betsy and Uncle Simon were ushered first to a table downstairs with no view. My aunt wanted to be able to see the view, so she asked the waiter to move them upstairs next to the window.

When they sat down upstairs, a different waiter brought them the menu and told them about the specials. As he walked away, he said, “By the way, if you need anything, my name is Barak.” My aunt immediately got the chills.

There are eight million people in Israel, probably a thousand Baraks, right?

Even so, she told my uncle, “Ask him for his mother’s name! Maybe it’s Orna.” My uncle, he’s this big, burly fellow, he’s not shy, so he called out, “Hey, Barak! Come here. By any chance is your mother’s name Orna?” Barak said yes.

In shock, my aunt asked if he’d fought in Gaza the summer before, in Operation Protective Edge. “How did you know that?” He was completely, completely floored.

So your aunt explained? How did Barak react?

He was crying, my aunt was crying; the other servers and everyone who’d overheard were touched. Here, at his table, was this stranger from the other side of the world who knew about him and had kept him in her prayers.

My aunt told him, “Two weeks ago, I wondered if you were still alive. I turned to God and prayed, ‘If I could just meet him to make sure that he is okay.’” They just cried on each other’s shoulders.

Before my aunt flew home, she took Barak out for coffee and met his mother, Orna. They all promised to keep in touch. Still, my aunt had no idea how big of an impact she’d made. Until Barak sent her an e-mail.

And?

It came a few weeks after Aunt Betsy had returned to California. Barak wrote about tefillin, those small black boxes containing Torah verses that religious Jewish men strap onto their arms and head when they pray.

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“I haven’t really done that, I haven’t really prayed in a long time,” Barak wrote. Like many Israeli Jews, he wasn’t particularly religious. “But ever since I met you, I was inspired to start praying and I’ve been putting on those tefillin every morning and connecting to God.”

So you’re convinced that this wasn’t just a random encounter—it served a purpose?

Absolutely. That’s the way to inspire faith sometimes. Not by telling people what to do, but by showing how much you care. That’s what really touched Barak. The divine providence is amazing here, how God brought these two people together from opposite sides of the world.

What speaks to me even more is the fact that someone was praying for someone else without knowing who they were. And how that ended up touching the other person so much that they began to pray themselves. My aunt and uncle live their lives with a heightened awareness that God runs the show.

Sometimes we’re just walking zombies come to life, just going through the motions of saying, “Hi, how are you?” We don’t actually check in with each other. But if we’re checked in, all of us have stories like this. Everybody feels the hand of God in their life and when they share with others, perhaps others will be transformed too.

An Answered Prayer Guided Her To Safety

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Carla Rye Faherty

The sun was just beginning to set as I drove along the highway. I had only about 50 miles left to go before I arrived at my friend Eleanor’s beach house in Panama City, Florida.

This was my first vacation since my divorce. It was exactly what I needed. The problem was that I lived over 800 miles away in Texas. Money was tight, and driving was cheaper than a plane ticket, so I chose to drive myself there. I’d never taken that long of a road trip alone before, and I’d been somewhat anxious about the 12-hour drive. But things had gone smoothly so far, with long stretches of highway that I’d stay on for hours before merging. It was pretty straight-forward, up until the last leg of the trip, and I’d memorized the exits.

I spotted the sign for Panama City and exited the highway. Eleanor had told me that once I got off the main highway, I could choose to drive on the main drag, or take a more rural route. The main route was lined with shops and restaurants and packed with tourists. The other road was less direct, but there would be less traffic. One look at the stop-and-go cars turning onto the main street made it apparent that the rural option was best.

Just a few minutes into the drive, the city lights faded away. The sun had set by then, and I was in complete darkness, save for my headlights. There were no streetlights, and no other cars. I felt a flicker of regret, a feeling that I shouldn’t be there. I drove for what felt like forever. I kept my eyes peeled, but I couldn’t see any road signs.

Is this even the right road? I thought. What if I break down? Run out of gas? What if I just keep going and drive into the ocean by mistake? The fear might have been irrational, but on that lonely road, it felt so real. I needed to calm down. “Please, God, protect me,” I prayed. “Show me the way.”

A few minutes later, I spotted a glow in the distance. A small cabin materialized right off the side of the highway. The gleam was emanating from a naked bulb, flickering on the porch. A sign out front read “KOA.” It was a Kampgrounds of America office. Even though it was late, there was a car in the parking lot. I turned in to stop and ask for directions.

Inside, a woman was sitting behind the front desk. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“I think I’m lost,” I said.

Once I explained where I was headed, she gave me a reassuring smile. “You’re really close!” She told me that if I kept going, I’d come across a turn that would take me directly to Panama City, though it was easy to miss in the dark. She took out a piece of scrap paper and drew me a map. I thanked her profusely.

Armed with her instructions, I was soon confidently back on the road and before I knew it, I arrived at Eleanor’s beach house.

Over breakfast the next morning, I shared my harrowing experience and told Eleanor about the kind woman at the KOA office who’d helped me. But Eleanor looked puzzled. “There’s not a KOA office there,” she said. “We’ve owned this house for more than 10 years. I know every store, shop, and business in and around this area. There’s nothing along that strip of road, I can promise you that.”

“But I stopped there last night!”

“I don’t know, I’d have to see it to believe it,” Eleanor said.

We were so stuck on it that after we finished eating, we decided to hop in the car and retrace my route from the night before. The road was not so menacing in the daytime, but there were no signs of life, same as before. When we came up on the spot where the KOA office had been, there was nothing, just like Eleanor had said. It was just an empty lot. Later, still in disbelief, I thoroughly searched for the paper with the directions on it to prove my point. But it was gone. Only there when I needed it, as much an answered prayer as the ephemeral Kampground office itself.

An Answered Prayer for a Heaven-Sent Child

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Ruth Kizer

I looked over my holiday shopping list. Two weeks until Christmas and I had everyone in the family covered—except for my daughter, Christel. I was a little stuck on her present. The one thing she wanted, I had no power to give.

Christel and her husband, Mike, had been trying to have a baby ever since they got married, 10 years earlier. Now, at age 33, after countless treatments and consultations, she didn’t know if she could take one more failed pregnancy test.

I looked back at my Christmas list and Christel’s name with nothing beside it. God, won’t you just go ahead and give her a baby? And then I heard it, quiet and gentle: Buy Christel a baby dress. She’ll have a girl by Christmas.

A baby by Christmas? Not this Christmas, surely. But even next Christmas would be pushing it. Plus, who gives a baby dress to someone struggling like Christel was?

But the voice was insistent. A dress for a baby girl.

I was convinced the instruction came from above. Despite everything I knew to be true, I had to listen. I went to the mall, where I picked out a dress for a newborn. When I got home, I wrapped it and attached a note: You don’t need this gift today, but next year you will, for your baby girl. Love, Mom.

I was a bundle of nerves on Christmas Day, worrying what Christel would think of my gift. But when she opened the box, she held the dress up for everyone to see. “Looks like we’re going to have a baby girl by next Christmas!” she said. The family gasped. Tears streamed down Christel’s face. Were they tears of joy—or had I made the biggest blunder of my life?

A few weeks after Christmas, I called my daughter.

“Any news?” I blurted out when “Christel picked up the phone.

“Relax,” she said, laughing. “I promise if I get pregnant you’ll be the second person to know after Mike.”

I hung up, disheartened. I’d been so sure the voice I heard had come from God. Had I wanted so much for Cristel to be happy that I’d imagined the whole thing?

January passed, then February and March. Every time I saw Christel, she seemed more and more withdrawn. She always put on a brave face, but I knew her hopes were fading once again. I told her that God performed miracles in his own time. But even I wasn’t so sure anymore. All out of options, I changed my strategy. I went back to begging and pleading with God.

God, it’s too late for a Christmas baby this year, I prayed, but could you let Christel get pregnant by next Christmas?

By summer, I stopped asking God for favors and stopped asking Christel for baby updates. It was too painful for her and too embarrassing for me.

Then one afternoon in October, Christel called to chat. She actually sounded cheerful. Excited even.

“Mom, how do you feel about adoption?” she asked.

“It’s great,” I said with a sigh, “but it’s a long and difficult process…”

“Well, a friend of a friend wants to give her baby to a couple who can’t have children. She’s ready to sign the papers. And…her due date is December.”

I just about dropped the phone. Could this be God’s answer to my prayer? For the first time in nearly a year, I felt hopeful again.

Everything happened so quickly after that. A lawyer was hired, the papers were signed, and on the morning of December 16, the call came. The baby girl we’d all been dreaming of and praying for since last Christmas was finally here.

At the hospital, Christel had to tear baby Carlee away from me! We couldn’t wait for her to model her Christmas dress I’d bought at God’s prompting.

The next morning, Christel called and said she needed me to come over right away. I raced out the door. When I got there, I found Christel and Mike grinning like teenagers. Carlee was sound asleep.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Mike said, gesturing toward an overstuffed rocker in the family room.

I took a seat, right on top of something hard and plastic. I pulled the object out from under me and set it on the coffee table. Mike and Christel waited until it hit me what it was—a pregnancy test.

“I’ve taken a million of those,” Christel said. “That’s the first one that’s been pink. I’m pregnant!”

I’d wished for a baby girl and prayed for a pregnancy by Christmas. Well, God delivered on his promise…and then some. By the following December, our family celebrated not one but two little miracles—my healthy, happy grandkids, Carlee and Carson.

An Anonymous Gift to Paul Young Kept on Giving

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Kevin Felts

When you’re a freelance cameraman like I am, you can’t always pick and choose your assignments. Often, you accept work not out of any particular affinity you have for the subject but because you have bills to pay and a family to feed.

Sometimes, though, you’re fortunate enough to land an assignment that you can really get into and feel passionate about, even learn from. You pray for jobs like that. Well, I do anyway.

That’s why I was pumped when I got a call from a local client last April. They were selected to shoot a documentary on Paul Young, a novelist in my area who wrote the surprise best seller The Shack. They asked if I’d be their cameraman.

Are you kidding? I thought. I loved shooting documentaries. And about a book that my wife, Julie, and I had both enjoyed immensely? It’s the story of a man who meets God when he’s at the lowest point in his life, inspired by Paul Young’s own dramatic spiritual journey.

He didn’t intend for it to be published. He wrote it for his children, to show them the redemptive power of faith. He printed up 15 copies at Office Depot and gave it to family and friends for Christmas. His friends passed it around. Eventually a major publisher picked it up and The Shack became an international phenomenon, with 14.5 million copies sold worldwide.

The crew and I shot a series of interviews with Paul, at his beautiful suburban house and at different locations around town. Writing the book, he said, had been his offering to God, who’d reached him and restored him when he’d hit bottom.

Listening to him over the course of several days, I was struck by his assurance that good followed faith. I believed in God, but I had a lot of questions about how exactly he works in our lives.

One afternoon, as we were wrapping up for the day, the producer said to me, “We’re going to film the last segment tomorrow at Paul’s old house, where he lived when he wrote the book.”

The next morning I picked her up at her hotel and together we drove over. We pulled up in front of a modest house on a quiet street about 20 minutes from my home.

“Paul sure has come a long way from here,” the producer remarked.

A shiver went through me. “I think I know this house,” I told her.

Six years ago I had driven to a house that looked very much like this one, on a far different mission. After years of struggle as a freelancer, I’d finally carved out a comfortable career in sales.

Christmas had turned from a time of anxiety, from Can we afford anything besides the necessities this year? How will we break it to our kids that we won’t be able to see their cousins in California? to a time of celebration, visits to relatives and gifts under the tree.

Our family had been freed from want, and I wanted to find some way to pass our blessings along.

Christmas was coming. The local paper was full of stories of people struggling to keep their families afloat. “We could donate to a charity,” Julie suggested. But I wanted to do something more directly.

“What if I could find one husband, one father, to help anonymously?” I said. I’d slip one hundred dollars under his door. To the recipient, it would be a gift from God, not from me. Julie was all for it.

A few days later, a friend of a friend, Scott Closner, told me about a family of eight that was just about broke. The husband was working three jobs trying to keep his house warm and his kids fed.

Sounded perfect. I knew what it felt like to disappoint your family on Christmas. I asked my acquaintance for the address. He gave it to me, then said, “His name is…”

“No, don’t tell me,” I said. “I don’t want to know his name any more than I want him to know mine.”

The next morning I drove to the man’s house, checked to see that no one was looking and slipped a plain white envelope containing five crisp twenty-dollar bills under his door. I walked back to my car and drove away unseen. Merry Christmas! I thought. Other than Julie, I never told a soul.

I hadn’t thought of the man and his family since then. Till now.

We walked up the pathway to the house. Yes, this feels familiar, I thought. But maybe I had misremembered. After all, it had been six years.

Paul was standing there on the porch, waiting for us.

Should I ask him? I thought. A part of me wanted to. But the key to the gift was its anonymity. I was relieved when the producer said, “Let’s get to work.”

I set up my camera on the porch. The sound man prepped for the shoot. We filmed for 15 minutes, then the producer needed to pause. The whole time I gazed at Oregon’s most successful new author, wondering…

Paul and I chatted. My curiosity finally got the best of me. I had to know. This was my last chance. “Hey, Paul,” I said, “do you remember that Christmas when you found a hundred dollars under your door?”

He stopped short and turned around, his eyes widening. “Of course,” he said, “I’ll never forget it.” He looked at me. “But how do you know about that?”

I told him. We hugged, amazed at how circumstances had brought us together again.

“Want to hear the most incredible part of the story?” Paul said. “When I finished writing The Shack, I didn’t think I’d have the money to print the copies I needed for Christmas. I used that hundred dollars to help print the original 15 copies. And without that first printing, word about the book would never have gotten out.”

Did I say circumstances brought us together? Did I say I wished I could have proof that God is at work in our lives? I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Julie.

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An Angelic Answer to Prayer

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Carin LeRoy

“Ma’am, there is no seat for you on the plane,” the check-in clerk at the airport told me. “You must fly standby only.”

“But, here, this is my ticket. I confirmed my seat three days ago.” The clerk only shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But there is no seat for you on this flight.”

I grabbed my luggage and wandered away from the counter before I burst into tears. I was alone in the domestic airport terminal in Delhi, India. I didn’t have any friends in the city. I didn’t even speak the language. What was I going to do?

I found an empty corner and plopped down on the cement floor. Maybe if I’d gotten here sooner…

I knew timing was everything when it came to overseas travel. I’d flown to India with my son, who was going on a trek in the Himalayas with some other college kids. After seeing him off, I planned to catch a connecting flight to North India to visit a friend.

I woke bright and early to make sure I had enough time to get from my hotel to the airport, and headed down to the lobby to grab myself a quick breakfast.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” a hotel attendant greeted me as I stepped out of the elevator. He was a diminutive man, dressed in a smart white uniform with gold buttons down the front.

“I’m looking for the buffet,” I said.

“But where are you from? What will you do here in my country? There is much for you to see!”

“I just arrived from America. Now I’m flying to North India to meet a friend. I leave for the airport directly after breakfast.”

“Ah, I see….” He went on and on, with every good intention, I was sure. But I fidgeted as we talked. I felt like I was wasting time. Can’t he tell I’m in a hurry?

Finally he led me to the breakfast room. I ate in record time, then ran back to my room to grab my luggage, wheeling it quickly through the lobby to the front door—

“Hello, Ma’am!” There was the hotel attendant again. I groaned. Now I really didn’t have time for small talk. But there was no getting away. After more friendly conversation, he helped me with my luggage and put me into a taxi.

The city was bustling with action. Rickshaws, bikes, cars and buses crowded the road, weaving in and around one another. Masses of people filled the edges of each street, moving in an endless rush.

Storefronts were loaded with merchandise, heaped high in the windows and stacked in sidewalk stalls outside. Colorful signs with peeling paint hung from every building. The air was filled with a cacophony of voices and honking horns.

I could barely focus on one thing before it was out of sight and replaced by something new. It was dizzying to behold, and before I knew it, the taxi was slowing to a stop outside the airport.

I stepped over a puddle and made my way to the terminal. By some miracle, I found the right line to enter the building—security x-rayed everyone’s luggage and allowed only ticketed passengers inside. How long will this take?

At my turn, I gathered my belongings and hurried over to the clerk’s counter at the other end of the building, only to find out that I had no seat.

Sitting on the floor, clutching my luggage, I was at a loss for what to do. The conversations around me were in Hindi. Colors whirled as women in bright saris rushed around to catch their flights. Nothing here was familiar. I felt invisible, a foreign woman praying quietly on the cold floor alone.

“Ma’am, did you get your flight?” I looked up in surprise at the hotel attendant, still dressed in his white suit. How relieved I was to see him!

“I’m on standby,” I said. “There’s no seat for me.”

“Give me your ticket and passport, and I will talk to them,” the man said. I hesitated, but handed both items over. He was the only person I knew in all of Delhi. He strode over to the ticket counter and began talking loudly in Hindi with the clerk.

A few minutes later, he marched back as if I was his one priority. But wasn’t he traveling too? I wondered. “Ma’am, here is your boarding pass. You now have a seat on the plane.”

I took the pass, stammering thank-yous. My plane called for boarding, and I pressed a tip into his hand and went on my way. I’d forgotten to ask if he was traveling, and why in uniform. And if not, how he had been allowed in the terminal without a ticket—as if I was his one priority!

As the plane climbed over the clouds I thought again about timing. It certainly was everything when it came to overseas travel—and to the way an angel in Delhi had escorted me every step of the way.

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An American in China

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Rita Turner

Teach English in China and experience the nuances of an ancient culture…

I was experiencing the nuances, all right. I looked down at my bed—a generous description for that narrow plank two inches off the ground. Not even a thin mattress to rest my arthritic 62-year-old American self on. My roommate, Rosemary, giggled. I was used to that by now.

I’d arrived in Bao’an, on the outskirts of the city of Shenzhen, three weeks earlier, excited to teach English as part of my master’s degree program. I’d pictured my students hanging on my every word. It turned out eight-year-olds are the same everywhere—hyper! Plus, it was sweltering, and my classroom didn’t have so much as a fan. Thank goodness I’d finally mastered my first Chinese sentence. Wo yao bing shui—I’d like ice water. The other teachers in the program were just out of college, up for anything. Even the chicken feet and beef-blood stew in the cafeteria. Me, I couldn’t seem to settle in and get comfortable.

Especially on that board bed. I crouched and crawled onto it, my joints creaking. Rosemary laughed again. “Rita, why’d you decide to enroll in this program, anyway?”

I’d seen the puzzled looks from the other teachers. The locals who stopped and stared—and sometimes reached out to touch my white-blonde hair. What in the world was a 60-something widow from Southern California doing in Bao’an, far off the tourist track?

I shifted to take the pressure off my bad knee. “Okay, Rosemary, if you really want to know…”

It all started with my husband, Paul. I never thought I’d find my soul mate at age 52. Then I met Paul at a church luncheon. It was the beginning of a wonderful adventure. Which was really different for me. I’d been at the same job—teaching elementary school—for 39 years. Not like Paul. He’d sailed the seven seas, even lived in Japan. I’d never set foot on foreign soil. Paul made plans for us to travel, see the world. “Rita, you gotta dream big,” he was always saying. “Get out of your comfort zone.” We were going to drive cross-country. Backpack through Europe. But five years into our marriage, Paul died of cancer. Counseling, support groups…nothing eased my grief. What was I supposed to do with my future now that the love of my life was gone?

Then, one spring morning, a voice blaring from my clock radio jolted me awake: “Teach English in China and experience the nuances of an ancient culture.…” Just as suddenly, the ad cut off, mid-message. The radio went back to music from the station I kept it tuned to. Strange.

I wanted to hear the rest of the message. I listened for that ad for a whole month. It never played again. Finally, I called the station.

“We don’t air any commercial like that,” the manager said. I persuaded her to send me a list of the station’s sponsors. I e-mailed every name on the list, asking, “Do you offer a program to teach in China?”

Only one sponsor said yes—Concordia University. It was about to launch a pilot program for teaching English in China, as a requirement for its Master of Arts in International Studies degree. I met with the dean and the program director for an interview.

The dean looked at me the way the locals here did. “I was surprised to receive your application,” he said. “How did you even hear about the program? We haven’t officially launched it yet.”

“On the radio.” I explained about the ad.

The dean looked even more perplexed. He turned to the program director. “Did you place that ad?”

The director shook his head. “We don’t have the budget for it.”

Nobody could account for the voice that came from my radio. An odd message blaring in the darkness, one I couldn’t ignore.

“So I packed my bags,” I told Rosemary. “I needed to dream big. Leave my comfort zone and try someplace new.” I tapped the plank beneath me. “I just wish it came with a more comfortable bed.”

This time when Rosemary laughed, I did too.

A Mysterious Ways Mea Culpa

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Adam Hunter

I have to apologize, Mysterious Ways fans. I’ve let you down by not writing in this space every week as I should. It’s not that there haven’t been inexplicable stories of God’s grace in the news—it’s because I’ve been quite involved in the creation of a new Guideposts product I’m very excited about.

What exactly is it? Well, I don’t think I can spill the beans quite yet. But if you sign up for our Mysterious Ways newsletter, you’ll be among the first to hear about it. You’ll also receive a brand new Mysterious Ways story in your email inbox every week, guaranteed. No junk—just real life stories about the wonderful and unexpected ways in which an unseen hand reaches out to comfort, protect and inspire us.

This week’s newsletter story comes from our very own editor-in-chief, Edward Grinnan. He writes about a mysterious light that came to him in the midst of a very dark time in his life.

Many of my friends and family members have asked how they can receive the newsletter. Just click the link below to sign up and also receive a free Mysterious Ways e-book.

And please, keep sending in your true stories to mw@guideposts.org. We always love to hear about the miracles and wonders that you have experienced.

A Mysterious Ways Giveaway Winner’s True Story

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Adam Hunter

Congratulations to Dorothy Donahue, this week’s winner of the 2010 edition of His Mysterious Ways. This week, one lucky random commenter will receive a 2011 One-minute Devotions Page-A-Day Calendar, which features Mysterious Ways stories every weekend. Register below and get commenting!

Dorothy, in her comment, shared her own “Lost & Found” Mysterious Ways story:

“My son once gave me a set of crystal earrings for my birthday—they were way out of his price range, which I felt bad about, but knew he wanted to do something special for me.

One night after my shower, I realized I hadn’t taken out these very earrings, as I usually do before showering. To my dismay, one was gone! I went back to the bathroom and checked every inch, but there was no sign of it. I had showered in our pool bathroom, which has no tub or edge to keep the shower water contained, so I had taken the squeegee and carefully scraped all the water into the drain. My heart sank as I thought of it—now gone forever below the ground!

I checked out the small bathroom floor a couple of more times for any trace—nothing. I went back to my bedroom and got all teary-eyed—my son and I didn’t see each other often, so the earrings meant that much more to me. I prayed specifically for a miracle that somehow, somewhere it would show up and I would find it again.

Then I had a peace that I was going to find it. Just then I got the idea to go look in the bathroom again. How absurd! I’d checked so thoroughly.

I walked back to the pool bathroom, pushed the door open and took one step in. There in the middle of this tiny bathroom was my earring—sparkling and glimmering in the sunshine coming through the window.”

I love hearing stories from readers about how they felt or witnessed God’s presence in their lives. A lot of these stories tend to fit into different categories—like Dorothy’s “Lost and Found” story above. We also get what we like to call “His Humorous Ways,” surprising, funny moments that serve as little reminders from God to lighten up and laugh once in a while. Or “Perfect Timing” stories, which show us that we can make all the plans we want to, but God may have a different—and more important—schedule planned. We’ve heard some pretty amazing “How We Met” stories, about the strange twists and turns that led a couple to find out they were made for each other. And of course, we receive many “Comfort From Beyond” stories, in which God delivers signs to us that our departed loved ones are okay, allowing us to move on.

I really have the best job at Guideposts (don’t tell Edward), because reading these stories shows me that evidence of God’s love isn’t always in the big “miracles” we see in the newspapers. Usually, it’s in the things that happen in our lives everyday. These stories really inspire me. Even the ones we don’t publish. Just because our editors may think a story isn’t more than coincidence or can be easily explained away, doesn’t mean that I haven’t been touched by the writer’s positive attitude and honest faith.

Please continue to share your stories, or those of friends, below in the comments or in an email to mw@guideposts.org.

A Mysterious Light Guided Two Lost Hikers to Safety

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Harry Mathis

My date, Lisa, and I were huddled in the pitch black on a wooded ridge in the Colorado Rockies. All around us were rocks and sheer drops. We’d lost the trail. We were still a mile or more from the car. And it was getting colder by the minute.

I couldn’t believe I’d gotten us into this mess. I’d met Lisa through a family friend and invited her to hike Eagle Peak with me as our first date. I felt responsible for our safety and guilty that I’d put both of us in danger.

After all, I should’ve known better than to hike so close to nightfall without any flashlights or heavy jackets. I was a junior at the nearby Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. A former Eagle Scout too. But I’d been so excited for our date, I didn’t think twice about heading out for the hike a little later than I usually would. I’d taken this trail before, and it was sunny and unseasonably warm that November day. I felt I had little reason to worry.

The hike had started out great. Lisa and I traversed a ridge densely forested in pines and firs, hiked over a saddle and climbed to the peak. We paused there to take in the glorious view, the brilliant trees, hawks wheeling on the updrafts, the setting sun…Wait a second. I checked my watch. Four o’clock?! Somehow we’d lost track of time. I suggested we head back, struggling to hide the worry in my voice. I hoped if we hurried, we’d make it before the sun went down and the temperature dropped along with it. But it was slow-going. By the time we finally arrived at the wooded ridge, the sun had set. The tree canopy blocked out the stars and the moon. When we could no longer see in front of us, I made us stop.

Now here we were, stuck on this ridge, immobilized by the darkness. We were both shivering violently, our teeth chattering uncontrollably. Lisa wore a sweater, and I had given her my light jacket. We were both in danger of hypothermia if we didn’t get off this mountain soon.

“We might have to crawl down,” I said to Lisa.

“Okay,” Lisa said, crouching to the ground. “I’ll stay close.”

I started out and immediately slipped on the scree. I caught myself. Lisa gasped and stopped behind me. Rocks clattered over the edge of the ridge. Who was I kidding? I had no way of knowing if we were heading toward a drop or even in the right direction. I felt utterly defeated. The only thing I could think to do was pray. I squeezed my eyes shut.

God, we need light, I prayed silently. It seemed like an impossible request in the given circumstances. Still, I didn’t know what else to pray for.

I am the light of the world.

A voice responded. But I hadn’t heard it out loud. It seemed to come from within, from my heart. I didn’t understand what the words meant. I stood up. Without understanding why, I knew that I needed to repeat these words to calm down and clear my mind.

“Lord, you are the light,” I whispered to myself.

An incredible peace filled me. As if somehow I knew everything would be okay. I took a deep breath, then glanced down. I gasped.

Surrounding my feet was a circle of blue-green light. It was faint, similar to the soft glow of an illuminated watch face. I could clearly see my shoes and was relieved to find that we were standing directly on the trail. But where was the light coming from? Was someone shining a flashlight? I looked around but couldn’t find the source of the mysterious glow.

I took a cautious step forward.

The glow moved with my feet. I took another step, and it moved with me again. I had an innate sense that this light was for me, that it had been sent to lead us.

“Lisa,” I said. “Follow me. I think I can get us out of here.”

We edged forward slowly, Lisa’s hands on my hips so we wouldn’t get separated. With every step, the light stayed at my feet. I was tempted to ask Lisa if she could see the light too, but I worried that if I spoke about it, it might disappear. Just keep following it, I thought. We moved along. The feeling of calmness stayed with me.

After an hour of walking, we emerged from the trees. The light of the stars and the moon illuminated the scenery around us. I could now easily see the trail and the car at the trailhead. We’d made it! I looked around for the strange light, but it had disappeared. I never saw it again, but the feeling of comfort it brought me hasn’t faded, even in my darkest moments in the many years since.

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A Mysterious Dog Cured Her Loneliness

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Patricia Thomas

I was making my morning coffee in the kitchen and wondering how I would get through the day, especially with the rain coming down, when Tony’s picture toppled from the mantle in the family room. Again. Ever since my husband died two years earlier, that gold-framed photo—Tony posing with his prize hunting dogs—kept falling. That wasn’t all that was happening. Sometimes the TV would turn on out of the blue. And I’d get this feeling that Tony was still with me. Was it just the wishful thinking of a lonely widow? I couldn’t be sure.

I picked up the frame, dusted it off and put it back in place. I stared out the window that flanked the fireplace, thinking of Tony. If only he really were still here. I needed him now more than ever. It had been the most difficult two years of my life. Not only had Tony died of liver failure. My mom died around the same time too. Then came more bad news. The night before, my brother called. He’d been planning on moving into my spare room. Not anymore.

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“I have cancer, Patricia,” he told me on the phone. “It’s terminal.”

This wasn’t how I’d pictured my golden years. Tony and I had had big plans. I was a photographer and drug addiction counselor. Tony was a Vietnam vet who’d risen through the ranks to become a master chief petty officer in the Navy. We’d moved around a lot, every three years to a new naval base. It didn’t matter where we lived as long as we were together. After Tony retired, we decided to settle in one place for good. Tony was a country boy who loved nothing more than biscuits with gravy and Hank Williams. We moved into a farmhouse on 55 acres in north Georgia. I imagined a lifetime of sipping sweet tea on the back porch, while Tony spun yarns about coon hunting. His dream was to raise champion hunting dogs. Meanwhile, I had my heart set on getting a sweet little Yorkie.

“Can’t I talk you into a beagle or Lab?” Tony said, poking fun at my choice of a dog, one that could fit in my handbag. Yorkies weren’t exactly farm dogs. But I’d wanted one since I was a kid.

“You enjoy your hounds,” I said. “I’m getting a Yorkie.”

We had so many plans, so many dreams. But some months after we’d moved in, I found Tony on the porch, looking unsettled. “Doc says my liver is failing,” he said. “I’ll need a transplant.”

Like many soldiers who’d served in Vietnam, Tony had contracted hepatitis C and been exposed to Agent Orange. In my eyes, he’d always been invincible—a larger-than-life Southern gentleman, as tough as they come. I didn’t want to believe he could die. For eight months, we waited for a donor match. My mom, meanwhile, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I stayed up night after night, researching both Tony and Mom’s conditions, hoping to find some detail the doctors might’ve missed. Finally Tony got a transplant. He recovered sooner than expected and was home in no time. But the victory was short-lived. Two months later, Tony suffered a massive blood clot and died. He was only 60. And Mom was gone too.

Our farmhouse, which had once been so lively and filled with laughter, was eerily quiet. So dark and empty. There was no one to greet me when I came home from work. No one to sit with on the back porch. No one to walk with around our property. These were the saddest two years of my life. And now my brother was sick too. I didn’t want to go through another battle all alone. I didn’t want to watch another person I loved die. I stared out the window at the rain, which was coming down even heavier now. I was about to head back to the kitchen when I happened to notice movement. Something small and furry emerged from the woods in the backyard. It trotted right up to the house.

I set my coffee cup on the counter, grabbed my raincoat and dashed outside. The animal darted back into the woods. I knelt and waited, staying calm. A minute later, a dog came running out. He pressed against my knees and looked up at me. He was shivering, his brown fur matted and covered in mud. But there was no mistaking him.

A Yorkie. The kind that could fit in a handbag. I stared at the dog in amazement. Yorkies were relatively rare, an expensive breed. My house was surrounded by 300 acres of woods and farmland, without another house for miles. So what was this dog doing on my property? How had he survived in woods full of coyotes?

I carried him into the house and dried him off. The Yorkie made himself right at home. He curled up at my feet on the porch. He followed me from room to room in the house. And I swear he cracked a doggie smile when I played Hank Williams. The dog had no collar, no tags. I asked around in town. Posted his photo online. Nobody had lost a Yorkie. No one came looking for him. He was mine to keep. I named him Hank. He never left my side.

Just as devoted as the one who’d sent him.

A Mysterious Confirmation of Purpose

Posted on March 10, 2026April 10, 2026 by Brooke Obie

I felt a cloud of dread hanging over me as I awoke one morning to the sound of one of my three roommates dancing around in the kitchen of my apartment on Maiden Lane. I knew that moving to downtown New York City for graduate school would be a big adjustment; I had a novel in my heart that I wanted to write full-time, and going back to school seemed the best way to get it done. But living with 19 and 20-year-olds and sleeping on a bunk bed at my age seemed ridiculous.

Why did I come here? I thought, as I dragged myself out of my lower bunk and got dressed to head to the library for a day of writing. I’d been living happily in my own apartment in Washington, D.C., just 30 minutes away from my family and a metro ride away from my close friends. I had a cushy job that I was proud of too. And a queen size bed! Couldn’t I have written my novel right there in my comfort zone?

After all, I was writing an alternative history novel about the real-life rebellions of enslaved Africans in 1790s Virginia. I’d based the plantation in my story on George Washington’s Mount Vernon, and even had an annual pass to visit and do research there as often as I wanted. What was the point of going to grad school in New York, a place where I had no friends, family or history to speak of?

Defeated, I laced up my shoes, slung my laptop case over my shoulder, waved a quiet goodbye to one of my roommates, and headed out the door. As I often do when I’m feeling down, I called my mom to lament as I walked my usual path down Maiden Lane and up Broadway toward the library.

“I shouldn’t have come here. Why did I come here?” I asked and she tried to reassure me. “You’re at a great school, you’re going to hone your craft! That’s what’s important,” she said. I let out a long, dramatic sigh, lifting my head up to the sky in response. That’s when a building I’d never seen before caught my eye.

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“African Burial Ground?” I read the signage on 290 Broadway out loud. My mom was just as confused as I was. What was a national monument to Africans doing in downtown New York City? I rushed off the phone and into the museum to find out.

The two-room museum didn’t look like much, but I eagerly shuffled into the theater to watch the introductory film. Taking notes, I couldn’t believe that I’d forgotten the enslavement of Africans in America largely began in New York in 1626. Nearly half of the population of New York City enslaved Africans in their homes. Before it abolished slavery 200 years later in 1827, New York was the largest state in which slavery was legal.

But what I didn’t know was that the famous street I walked up and down every day covered the burial ground of enslaved Africans. Discovered in 1991 during an excavation for a new federal building, these buried bones became a site of controversy as African Americans across the city protested to end the construction of the federal building. A compromise of sorts was made when the Burial Ground museum and memorial to house some of the discovered bones was proposed.

After the film, I walked around the exhibition floor, studying photos of the excavated bones and the contents of the graves: dolls, cowrie shells and other sentimental items. I began to feel a bit lighter, more encouraged, as I read what sociologists and archaeologists had pieced together about the enslaved people who were buried just below where I was standing. There was a connection–for my novel and for me–in New York, after all. I felt like those ancestors were walking with me, giving me a new strength and a new purpose to tell their stories.

The last fact I read that day about slavery in New York nearly knocked me over. The first rebellion of enslaved people in America took place in New York City, right near my apartment: at the intersection of Broadway and Maiden Lane.

Brooke Obie is the author of the award-winning debut novel Book of Addis: Cradled Embers.

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