The Night St. Christopher Rode with my Father

From: 
Story type: Angel
Location: Woodsboro, TX
Source: Form Submission

In late 1956, both my father and his brother had bought brand-new Fords. Being young and macho, they decided to race to see who had the fastest car. As they tore out of Woodsboro, Texas on a farm road, my father was ahead going into a very tight corner at over 100 miles per hour. His sense of victory was short-lived when he felt one of the front tires blow. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed the deeply dished steering wheel and hung on, literally, for dear life.

The car, unable to negotiate the turn, sailed across the ditch and through a fence. All he could think about, my father said, was that there was a telephone pole almost directly ahead of him. The first miracle was that he somehow missed it, apparently by inches. But even with missing the telephone pole, the car was still going to crash. Due to its high rate of speed, the car dug into the ground nose first, and proceeded to flip end-over-end several times. My father said he felt the roof come down until it rested on the top of his head. It went no further.

The car landed upright on its wheels. By now, the doors had been torn off. My father, terribly shaken, slid from the front seat onto the ground. He remembers that he slid out because the car was about to roll over on the drivers side. As he lay there, convinced that the car was about to fall on top of him, it slowly settled back down upon what remained of its wheels. Then he passed out.

My father came to with his brother crying and calling his name outside the car. He remembers that he was clutching something in his hand, as if for dear life. He and his brother examined it; it was one of those little ivory-colored statues of St. Christopher that people used to put on their dashboards.

Now, this was really peculiar. It was a new car, right off the lot. None of my family are Catholics. And my father is one of the firmest anti-religion people you will ever meet. After fully coming to, my father walked away without a scratch. My uncle took him home, where my mother begged him to go to the hospital. They placed the little statue on a dresser top before they left.

At the hospital, my father was given a clean bill of health. Later, my parents searched for the statue but it had disappeared from atop the dresser, never to be found again. The car was so totaled that my father kept for many years an ashtray from it because he said it was the only thing in one piece that he could find on the car. His insurance agent insisted that whoever had been driving the car was dead and for my father never, ever to buy insurance from him again.

My parents still have the yellowed newspaper clipping and a clear memory of an event that logic can never explain. But then, how does one explain divine protection and celestial calling cards?

By the way, that newspaper article, with a picture of the wrecked car, most appropriately begins, A miracle occurred here in Woodsboro