The Western Wall was even more breathtaking than it looked in photographs. The morning sun glistened off the towering limestone blocks while visitors of all ages and cultures, even soldiers in uniform, stood in prayer. My best friend, Ruth, and I hurried to the area where the women gathered, excited to pray at the foot of the Temple Mount, where our Jewish ancestors had felt closest to God.

In a little room to the right, hundreds of prayer books of different colors, sizes and languages were stacked. I grabbed one with Hebrew and English and stood next to Ruth, who’d brought her own from home, a siddur with a worn brown cover that had belonged to her mother, Sarah.

Tufts of greenery sprouted from cracks in the mammoth stones, along with folded notes containing prayers. I left a note myself, asking God to help me find my beshert—my soul mate. Ruth placed her own note in the Wall and bowed her head, her eyes closed, deep in devotion.

READ MORE: MY PRAYER AT THE WAILING WALL

“What did you pray for?” I asked when she was finished. Ruth wouldn’t say. That was unlike her, but I respected her privacy.

“I feel so at peace here,” she said.

Something had been on Ruth’s mind, that I knew. We’d been best friends since the third grade, and there was little we could hide from each other.

There weren’t many Jews where we were from in Iowa—and with names like Ruth Siegel and Eve Smalheiser we stood out. We had quickly bonded over our shared faith and family traditions, Shabbat dinners and our Bat Mitzvah lessons. We talked often of visiting Jerusalem one day.

“We’ll pray together at the Western Wall,” Ruth promised me when we were kids. “You’ll see.” Now we were both 20 years old, having come to Jerusalem sooner than we had dreamed.

We spent the rest of the day visiting the holy sites of Jerusalem, places we had read and dreamed about for years. But back at our hotel, Ruth flew into a panic. She tore through her bag, opened the drawers, dropped to the floor to look under the bed. “My prayer book!” she said. “It’s gone!”

“Let’s check again,” I said. “It must be somewhere.” We frantically looked around our room, until we ran out of places to look.

“Maybe I left it on one of the buses we took,” Ruth said.

We called the bus company, but no one had seen it. Ruth made her peace with the loss. “Maybe my book’s gone to someone who needs it more than I do,” she said.

READ MORE: THE PRAYER BOOK

I had to give her credit; she handled it with more grace than I would have. That was Ruth, though. Always one to focus on the blessings she had, not on the things she lost. We left Jerusalem with beautiful memories, hoping to come back someday.

I thought that my return trip would be with Ruth. Maybe with our future husbands, if my prayers were answered. Perhaps we’d both even make aliyah, or emigrate to Israel permanently.

I never thought that a year after our time in Jerusalem, I’d lose my best friend to cancer. I had no idea that Ruth was sick until the end, but she’d been fighting it for a while. Now I understood what she had prayed about so solemnly at the Western Wall.

I returned to Jerusalem alone. Still in mourning, approaching the first anniversary of her death. I did the only thing that I felt would help me with my grief—I returned to the Wall, the place where Ruth and I had felt such peace.

Those weathered limestone blocks were as I remembered them, gleaming in the hot sun, their cracks filled with paper prayers. I approached the Wall and asked God to help me through my friend’s death. But all I felt was sorrow. Without Ruth it just wasn’t the same.

I ducked into the little room to the right of the women’s prayer area. I combed through the stacks of prayer books, looking for one written in both English and Hebrew. My hand brushed across one with a brown cover, its faded title in English. I pulled it out and returned to the Wall outside, my heart heavy with my thoughts of Ruth, the memory of her praying beside me. And I flipped open the book.

In that moment, joy and gratitude replaced my grief. I didn’t feel alone.

Written inside the worn cover were two names. Names of people I knew. Sarah Goodman Siegel and her daughter, my best friend, Ruth. Of all the books I could have chosen, I had found Ruth’s siddur. Or had it found me?

Life is made up of moments that lodge in our minds like scenes from a movie. Strung together, they tell a story of where we’ve come from, who we are, what we want to be.

It’s no fluke that when we play back the video of our lives, the scenes we remember most vividly are those when our story overlaps with anoth­er’s–however briefly. These shared scenes change each of us in power­ful ways. For better or worse.

Such a convergence occurred one day in March 1988. A scene Shel­ley Cumley wanted to forget. The 25-year-old from Seattle was driving south to Lake Tahoe for a week of skiing with her friends.

She rolled down her car window and stuck her hand out to catch the breeze. Noth­ing but green hills stretched out on either side of Interstate 5, California’s Cascade Wonderland Highway.

She looked in her side-view mir­ror. A red sports car was coming up fast. Too fast. It swerved over the double yellow lines and zoomed ahead, barely missing Shelley. She glimpsed the driver’s face. Wild eyes. He seemed intoxicated. He vanished around the next curve.

Farther down Interstate 5, travel-ing north, Roanna Farley glanced in the rearview at her seven-month-old baby, Nicole, fast asleep in the back. Was the car seat secure? Nicole was her first child; Roanna could never be cautious enough.

She turned her attention back to the road–just in time to see a flash of red cross into her lane.

The instant Shelley rounded the curve, she saw a trail of debris on the road. Broken glass and twisted steel littering the asphalt. A head-on col­lision, between the drunk driver and another vehicle. Shelley pulled over, jumped out of her car and ran toward the smoldering wreckage.

Roanna opened her eyes. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber hung in the air. She couldn’t move, but that wasn’t her concern. “My baby,” she cried weakly. “Where’s my baby?”

Shelley approached the crumpled sedan. She peered inside. A woman was trapped between the front seat and the dash, fading into uncon­sciousness. In the back, a tiny red­headed baby in a car seat, crying.

I have to get her out, Shelley thought. The leaking gas, the smoke. This car could blow up at any min­ute. Shelley wasn’t a mother, but a maternal instinct took over. The child’s safety came above all else. She opened the door and lifted the baby out of the car seat.

Roanna looked up in a daze. Ni­cole…A stranger was holding her–it was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness completely.

Shelley rode in the ambulance with the baby all the way to the hospital. She learned the girl’s name in the emergency room: Nicole Farley. A triage doctor gave the baby an initial examination and told Shelley that Nicole was not in immediate danger. The mom was critical.

Shelley stayed at the hospital, praying for the wom­an’s life until Nicole’s father arrived.

Roanna opened her eyes in a hos­pital bed. She vaguely recalled riding in a helicopter. A kind EMT. White lights. Doctors and nurses crowding around her. After a week in intensive care, she was finally lucid.

Her foot had been impaled by the car’s seat adjuster, her left eye and nasal cavity were caved in, her pelvis broken. But she didn’t care about her own inju­ries. “Where is Nicole?” she asked. “Is my baby okay?” All she remem­bered was a stranger holding her.

In Lake Tahoe, Shelley sat in a ski lift and stared at the mountains in the distance. She kept thinking about the accident. Was Nicole’s mother going to be okay? Driving back home to Seattle at the end of the week, she made a detour. She stopped at the hospital to check in on the Farleys.

“Roanna is still in serious condi­tion,” the nurse told her, “but she’s going to pull through. Baby Nicole is in the pediatric wing.”

Shelley gave the nurse a puzzled look. “Why?” she asked. “The doctor told me the baby was fine.”

“I’m sorry, but we discovered Nicole suffered a spinal-cord injury. She’s paralyzed from the chest down.”

The room spun. Shelley couldn’t breathe. Was it my fault? Had she hurt the baby when she pulled her from the car seat? She left the hospi­tal quickly. She needed to get away. Away from the little girl whose life she’d ruined.

It was almost a month before Ro­anna could leave the hospital. She and her husband assessed the situ­ation with Nicole. They would need nurses, physical therapists, all the help they could get. But they were determined to help Nicole adapt to her injury and grow up to be independent.

“Always push a little harder”–that was the physical therapists’ advice to the Farleys. In Nicole’s toddler years, they encouraged her to do things for herself, like take out her own toys and put them away again. As she grew, she learned to propel her wheelchair on her own.

As soon as Nicole was old enough to under­stand, Roanna told her about the accident, and the mysterious strang­er who had come upon the scene.

Whenever Shelley thought of the Farleys, she was consumed by guilt. She pushed the memory of that week in 1988 deep within her. She joined a church in Seattle. Pursued a career as a dental assistant. Married and started a family of her own.

Once, when she took her kids to Disneyland, her mind went straight to Nicole. She lives in California. Maybe she’s here. Shelley scanned the crowds, looking for a redheaded girl in a wheelchair. She yearned to see her, yet at the same time dreaded that moment.

What if the Farleys held her respon­sible for the injury?

After 25 years, Shelley had decid­ed she was better off not knowing the answer. Nicole would be 25 now. The same age I was then. Yet Nicole would never ski at Lake Tahoe with friends. Shelley couldn’t bear to hear the sad story of what happened to the little girl.

In the Farley home, Nicole sat with her mom, sifting through photos of her life, beginning with that fateful day on Interstate 5. Pictures from the accident scene. Articles that ran in the paper. Shots of her and her mom in the hospital.

One by one, she put them in order, a timeline of the trag­edy, and of what came after.

She’d typed a script to go along with the photos. A message she want­ed to share. A tech-savvy friend would take the images and Nicole’s words and produce a video she could upload to YouTube and share with friends.

The idea to tell her story had popped into her head out of the blue, though she didn’t know if she was up to the task. But “Always push a little harder” had become her man­tra.

“If this video can stop one drunk driver or encourage one person with a disability, then this is all worth it,” Nicole said. Only thing left to do was choose the sound track.

Not long after, in Seattle, Shelley sat down with her lunch in front of her computer and checked her e-mail. One new message–the daily e-newsletter from GodVine. She opened it and scrolled through the day’s inspirational videos.

There were five, each with a thumbnail image. One showed a baby girl, smiling. Shelley clicked. Dark, dramatic mu­sic began to play.

“A stranger’s irresponsible deci­sion changed my life forever….”

A newspaper photo of a 1988 car accident filled the screen. A crushed sedan. Debris. All hauntingly familiar. A name flashed on the screen: Nicole Farley. The little girl who had lost her chance at a normal life. Shelley’s breath caught.

Then the music changed. “Nothing is impossible for me,” a woman sang, in a sweet, powerful voice. “You can do more than just survive,” the text on the video read. “You can overcome.”

In frame after frame, the redheaded girl was living. Reeling in the catch of the day on a fishing trip with her fam­ily. Swimming with dolphins. Traveling abroad with friends. Winning bake-offs. Even skiing!

She was extraordi­narily bright, and graduated from high school a year early. Now she lived on her own, and ran a day care out of her home. From her toddler years to her early teens, all the way up to adult­hood, Nicole was independent. Thriv­ing.

“My story isn’t just about the pain; it’s about faith, hope, love and trust in the face of tragedy,” the text read.

At the end, the captions revealed that the girl singing, with the beautiful voice, was Nicole. Tears welled in Shelley’s eyes. Nicole had grown up to have a full, happy life. According to the video, Roanna had made a full recovery.

Shelley played it back a dozen times, unable to get through it without cry­ing. One frame in the video jumped out at her. Nicole’s e-mail address. That night, Nicole checked her video on YouTube. Over 10,000 views! Friends had shared it with other friends on Facebook, and GodVine had picked it up.

So this is what it’s like to “go viral,” Nicole thought. Her in-box was flooded with e-mails from people who had been inspired. One from a woman named Shelley Cumley.

“Dear sweet Nicole,” it began. “Your video took my breath away the second I saw your name…. You see, I am the person who pulled you out of the car that day…. I have strug­gled over the years second-guessing myself and wondering if I made your injuries worse….

“I am so over­whelmed that your video literally was delivered to my in-box…. You are truly an inspiration…. Please know that if you ever wanted to talk to me, I am here…. Much love, Shelley.”

How was this possible? Hearing from the mysterious stranger who had arrived on the scene that day 25 years before? She had to reach out.

“Dear Shelley,” she wrote. “My fam­ily has nothing but gratitude for you. As my doctors have always told me, my spinal-cord injury occurred on impact. Your actions saved my mother and me. We hope to meet you face-to-face someday soon. With love, Nicole.”

This February, Shelley, Nicole and Roanna reunited in Portland, Oregon, sharing a scene once more–one they all wanted to remember.

Epilogue
Shelley Cumley told us more about the day of her reunion with Nicole and the Farley family, and what the experience has meant to her:

Following our e-mail connection, Nicole was in contact with a television reporter in her community. This reporter was familiar with Nicole’s life, and had actually done a story about her when she was just six years old.

The news anchor was putting together a 20-year follow-up segment and heard about our miraculous reconnection. Now this journalist wanted to interview me.

We arranged to meet at the home of Nicole’s grandparents in Portland, Oregon. I was told it would be just the reporter talking with me. If a meeting with Nicole were to happen, it would be at another time and place.

My husband and I travelled from Seattle and were warmly welcomed by Nicole’s grandparents. I was anxious about the interview, but very excited about what the Lord had done.

In her final question, the reporter asked what I would say to Nicole when I finally met her. I responded, and then the reporter told me to turn around and tell her myself. There, to my left, was a beautiful red-haired young woman in a wheelchair. It was Nicole!

My heart burst with emotion and I could not contain myself. Tears flowed freely as I embraced this young woman once again, 25 years after the traumatic day we first met. Minutes later Roanna joined us, and our bond was deep and immediate.

We spent several hours together and promised to stay in touch. Before departing, we all stood in a circle holding hands as Nicole’s grandfather prayed a prayer of blessing and gratitude. What had seemed like a nightmare for so long was now a beautiful dream come true.

All of us who have been part of this amazing journey give thanks to God in every aspect. By His grace, Nicole has been able to live her life. In His perfect plan, we will forever share our lives. Yet, beyond the countless details of our story, it all comes down to three simple words: Don’t give up.

No matter how deep our hurts, or how far we push them down, God never forgets our pain. He hears our prayers, even our very thoughts before we speak them. Trust Him and have hope. He is always at work to rescue and restore our hearts.

Just about there, I thought as I rounded the last curve.

I’m a hospice nurse and I don’t typically travel far beyond my small hometown of Henning, Minnesota, but today I was driving 50 miles to a nursing home in a neighboring town to check on a patient, filling in for a colleague.

Not that I minded. One joy of the job is meeting new people. Many of them tell me their life stories, which I always find fascinating, sometimes inspiring.

Growing up, I loved hearing my mom tell stories about her childhood in Henning, especially about her oldest brother, Maurice. He’d passed on long before I was born, when Mom was just nine years old, but even now she talked of him as if he’d just died.

“Did I ever tell you about the horse your uncle Maurice had?” Mom asked on a recent visit. “He knew how much I loved horses, but I was too young to have my own. So he taught me to ride his.”

She proudly recalled how Maurice enlisted in the army in the middle of World War II. But just three months before the war would end, he was killed by a Japanese sniper in the Philippine jungle.

“He was so close to coming home,” Mom said. She pulled out a tattered clipping of a poem Maurice had written. “It was for Sally, his fiancée,” she said. “She was a young country schoolteacher. When he returned from the war, they planned to marry.”

Mom read the poem to me:

We know that the world’s in a roar
But with God’s help we’ll win the war.
Then I return, I know not when
I want your love as it has been
And that thy love shall not tarry
From the girl I want to marry.
And this, among other things,
To hear the bells of our wedding ring.

“What happened to Sally?” I asked.

“I never knew. We heard she’d moved out West. But we lost touch. I always wished I could’ve talked with her. I loved her so much. But it’s too late now.”

Uncle Maurice and his long-lost love captured my imagination. Their story seemed like something from a tragic romance novel. I too wished I could talk to Sally, so I could know how the story turned out for the woman who would have been my aunt.

Sadly, Mom was right. Too many years had passed.

I pulled into the nursing home parking lot. I checked in at the front desk then walked into the patient’s room. The woman was very ill, unable to speak. No life stories today. I took her vital signs and updated her medical chart.

“I’m here for you,” I whispered to her.

“She hasn’t been very awake today,” came a voice from the other side of the curtain that divided the room. The patient’s roommate.

“Seems that way,” I said.

“Where are you from?” the roommate asked.

“Henning,” I answered.

“I taught there,” the roommate said, “a long time ago. What’s your name?”

I told her, but she didn’t recognize it.

“What about your maiden name, dear?” She didn’t know it, either.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You say it’s been a long time. Maybe you’ll recognize my mother’s maiden name.” I told it to her.

“What were her parents’ first names?” the woman asked, her voice growing stronger. I told her and she gave a little gasp. She pulled back the curtain. She was sitting in a rocking chair, her eyes wide.

All of a sudden, it clicked. Schoolteacher. Taught decades ago in our town… could it really be…

“My name is Sally,” she said. “I…I was engaged to your uncle Maurice.”

She poured out her story. Maurice’s death had been hard on her. She left her teaching job and moved to Washington.

“I loved your uncle so much. I had looked forward to being part of your family. I didn’t ever feel that chapter of my life closed.”

Sally married and had a son and three daughters. “We had a wonderful life,” Sally said. She had returned to Minnesota several years earlier.

“Would it be okay if my mom came to visit?” I asked. “She has always wondered about you.”

“That would be fine,” she said.

A short time later Mom went to see Sally. “She was as lovely as I remembered,” Mom told me. “We had a wonderful visit.” Sally even had her daughter send a picture of Maurice to Mom.

There was one thing, though. Sally had never read Maurice’s poem. So Mom read it to her. Sally loved it. Her eyes filled with tears.

The poem was the perfect ending to that chapter of her life, and she’d waited a lifetime to hear it. “I’m so happy you found her,” Mom said.

I’d gone to that nursing home 50 miles away to fill in for a colleague. I was there to check on a patient, and ended up meeting her roommate. Did I find Sally? Or was I led to her? I think I know.

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