WHAT TIME IS IT?
Author Unknown

My wife and I were living in Long Beach, California, in the early seventies and I had just gotten a job in the San Francisco Bay area. I was driving my little Volkswagen (we called her Twinky Wilma) up Highway 5, all alone, when it broke down in a desolate and empty expanse of concrete, an isolated and bleak stretch of the freeway. As well as I knew, the nearest gas station or town was more than fifty miles away. My prospects of securing help seemed bleak. I tinkered with the car valiantly, but nothing I tried could get it going again. I finally gave up.

I had been sitting by the side of the road for about an hour, feeling very helpless and forlorn, when I looked at my watch and noted that it was 6:15. Nervously, I wondered if I would get to San Jose in time for my first day of work, 8 A.M. the next morning.

Suddenly, without thinking about it, I automatically reached for the keys and tried to start the engine again. I don't know what prompted me to do that; some inner urge which I could not explain just compelled me to make another attempt. To my stunned surprise, the engine sprang to life as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. What a shock! I got my stuff together, shifted the car into gear and drove the rest of the way without mishap.

That night, I called my wife Kathie to tell her that I had arrived safely in San Jose and that everything was OK.

"Oh," she said, "I wasn't worried. The kids and I prayed for you
at dinner tonight. We did a special prayer for Twinky Wilma."
"Do you know what time that was?" I asked.
"Absolutely. I was watching the clock on the stove so dinner wouldn't burn."
"So, what time was it?"
"Six fifteen exactly."