In my very early years, my family lived in the small town of Hudson, IL. We went to church every Sunday, and my parents would always stay after the service for a while to chat with others in the congregation.

One Sunday, when I was about seven, I was bored with the adult chatting, so I did what I usually did – wandered around the church hoping to amuse myself somehow until we went home.

I went upstairs to one of the Sunday school rooms, maybe to look for a book to read. For some reason, I was drawn to a closet door. Something told me I was supposed to open that door.

I walked up and slowly slid the door open.

Inside, on the floor, was a large, lit candle. Wrapped around the candle were torn-out pages from either a Bible or a hymnal. The candle had burned down so that the pages’ edges were just above the sides of the flame. Lots of other pages were bunched around the base of the candle and scattered around the floor of the closet.

I was a bit shocked, but even my kid brain knew someone was trying to start a delayed-reaction fire.

I blew out the candle and immediately ran downstairs to tell my parents.

I don’t remember much of the details after that, except:

The next week, the minister told the congregation that there had been an arson attempt on the church.

My mom asked me, “why did you open the closet door?” I said, “I thought I was supposed to.”

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

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