It was a hot summer night in August, and my husband, Lynn, and our six children were asleep in the car. I had taken over driving just outside of Rocks Springs, Wyoming, so that my husband might rest. We could be at his parents’ home by midnight, he said, so it was best we go on. We were en route to Idaho from St. Louis, Missouri, where Lynn studied dentistry.
Soon after turning off Highway 30 and taking 30 North toward Bear Lake (on the Utah-Idaho border), I came to a detour sign that sent me to the right on a dirt road. I drove for quite some time, thinking I would soon see a sign to put me back on the main road. But the road got rougher and rougher. Suddenly out of the stillness came a very clear voice which said “Stop!”
I stepped on the brakes, and since I had been driving very slowly was able to stop almost instantly. Seven sleepy heads popped up to inquire: “Where are we? What’s the matter? Why did we stop here?”
All I could say was, “A voice told me to stop. Something must be wrong.” My husband took the flashlight and got out of the car—and found the front wheels on the edge of a canal.
By this time I was shaking, so Lynn took over driving and our older son guided him back. As we retraced our path, we noticed a very small sign that pointed back to the main highway—so small I had missed it in the darkness. Eight heads bowed in grateful thanks.
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