God rules and overrules technology to assist a cell-phone-unfriendly saint.

Unlocking a Modern-Day Miracle

by Lorene Miley

I am not cell phone friendly. I can make and receive calls. Period. All that other stuff merely frustrates this 83-year old brain. So when I traveled to France in January to help care for my daughter, Lynette, who had suffered a physical collapse, I happily packed away the cell phone.

Aix-en-Provence is a walker’s paradise. If there’s a road, there’s a walkway. And pedestrians have the right-of-way on the roundabouts (no intersections). That first day as I bundled up to explore this walking adventure, Lynette crammed her cell phone down into my pocket. “I don’t want that,” I resisted. I was sure I would never use it. She was most persistent. Each day she made certain I left equipped with a cell phone, money, ID, and shopping bag.

True to expectations, I did not use the cell phone…until the last day. I was scheduled to leave the next morning and had no gift for my youngest grandson. Earlier in the month, I had ridden a bus outside of town to a store similar to Wal-mart. Although some items interested me, I left empty-handed. I would return for those things, I decided, and announced to my family that I was riding the bus back to the Carrefour.

“Clint’s going out that way, and he can drop you off.” Lynette is good at volunteering her husband. “And he can even come back and pick you up,” she added.

“No, no,” I insisted, “I can ride the bus back.” With that, I headed out the door.

I was familiar with the store and knew what I wanted, so shopping went fairly quickly. Since no pick-up plans had been firmed up when we parted, I headed for the bus stop—just as the phone rang. I frantically sifted through pockets, but the device stopped ringing before I located it. “Oh well, I didn’t know how to answer it anyway,” I silently reasoned and dismissed it back to its hiding place.

I boarded the same bus as before and prepared for an interesting return trip to town. But instead of heading back, the vehicle turned in the opposite direction down a narrow road and through a small village with winding lanes no wider than the bus itself. We twisted between buildings with inches to spare until we came to the edge of another town, and the bus slowed to a stop. The driver waited, then turning to me, said, “Madame, this is where you descend.”

African French I can handle; French-French is like a cell phone. But I understood enough to know that his route continued away from town, and I must cross the road and wait for the next bus.

“Only the Lord knows where I am right now,” I thought as I sank to the bench.

I had just begun to admire the picturesque countryside when the phone rang. I grabbed it on the first ring, prepared my desperate “Hello”—but how does one open this thing?

The ringing stopped as I stared helplessly into a seemingly solid piece of metal. I couldn’t open it. It didn’t flip, slide or pop open. I twisted, turned, poked and shook. I peered intently through the screen and very faintly read the words: Key Pad locked. Please press On. No matter how closely I squinted, I saw absolutely nothing to clue me to the On button.

I had watched kids text messages with both thumbs, so I pressed both thumbs to that thing and danced a little tune up and down the black screen. Then suddenly from far off, I heard a voice, “Mom?”

“Clint!” I yelled.

As close as if he were sitting next to me, he said, "Where are you? I’m almost to the Carrefour to pick you up.”

“Oh, Clint, I don’t know where I am.” Sounding as pitiful as I could, I explained how the bus took off the wrong way and abandoned me at the edge of a tiny village.

He didn’t seem concerned. “I’m not sure where you are,” he said, “but I think I can find you. Just sit tight.”

I breathed a big sigh of relief then turned to “hang up” the phone. The screen still read: Key Pad locked. Please press On. So, call completed, I pocketed the phone.

In hardly any time at all, Clint’s Honda Caffat emerged from an alleyway. I hadn’t even buckled up before the phone rang again. I handed it to him, saying, ”You’ll have to answer it,” then gasped in amazement as he one-handedly pushed the screen up, and colors and lights and buttons sprang to life.

Lynette waited at the door, seething. “Mom! Why didn’t you answer the phone? I must have called you nine times.”

“I didn’t know how to use the phone.”

“You talked to Clint. How did you talk to him?”

“Just like this” I said, stacking my two palms together.

She gazed in disbelief. “It won’t work unless you open it.”

“Oh?”

Reality dawned on us both at the same time. A miracle! God is a very present help in time of need, even if it involves activating a locked cell phone.

About the Writer: Former missionary to Africa, Lorene Miley continues her walking adventures in Nashville, TN, where she now resides. A well-loved communicator, Mrs. Miley worked as Women Nationally Active for Christ editor for many years.