Tragedy Interrupted: A Childhood Memory of Divine Intervention

In the summer of 1961, life in our Midwestern neighborhood was simple and joyful. Ours was a close-knit, post-war baby boom community filled with the sounds of children playing and families connecting. We lived in modest ranch-style homes, lined up neatly and separated only by narrow driveways. Garages sat tucked behind each house, and the streets were our playground. Most families had three or four kids, and it was common to leave doors unlocked at night.

At thirteen, I lived with my hardworking parents and my younger brother, Rob. Our days were filled with baseball, football, and basketball, no matter the season or the weather. Next door lived the Steggles family—four kids between the ages of two and ten—who were our regular playmates and part of our everyday lives. The youngest, just two years old, was adored by everyone.

One oppressively hot midsummer afternoon, after a long game of baseball, I collapsed on our living room couch, dirty and exhausted. I was starting to drift off when my dad asked if I wanted to go to the store with him. He worked long hours, so I eagerly accepted the rare chance for one-on-one time.

As we got into our 1957 Ford Fairlane—Dad on the driver’s side, me on the passenger’s—I felt a sudden and overwhelming need to shout, “Stop!” My father slammed the brake and shifted the car into Park, startled by my urgent cry.

“I need to check something,” I said, jumping out of the car without knowing why.

I rushed to the back of the vehicle—and there, in the shadow cast by the car, was the Steggles toddler. Asleep, silent, and completely hidden from view, his tiny head rested just inches behind the rear tire.

My dad gently picked him up and carried him next door. No one could explain how the child ended up there, or how we hadn’t seen him.

To this day, I am convinced it was God who intervened. There was no voice, no sign—just an undeniable sense that something was wrong. Without that moment of divine guidance, a tragedy would have unfolded. The Steggles family would have been shattered. My father and I would have carried unbearable guilt. Instead, through a moment of grace, the child was saved.

That hot summer day changed me. I believe that sometimes, God whispers to us in ways we can’t explain—but can never forget.