15 years ago, when my family and I lived in a city near Belo Horizonte, in Brazil, my father left home for work in the morning. I didn’t have class that day, so I was home when he called less than an hour later.
He yelled over the phone, demanding to speak with my mother immediately. I knew something was wrong, and gave the phone to my mother.
As my mother talked with him, she started screaming too, saying that my Dad had been shot. She ran into the street, stopped a car, and asked the person to drive her to where my dad was.
He was parked at a gas station, waiting in line to have his car washed. The gas station was being robbed. The robbers ran from the store, guns in hand, saw my father in his car, and ordered him to get out. As he reached to grab his wallet, the robber, frantic and not knowing what my father was doing, fired the gun from only a foot or two away. The robbers then ran away.
When my dad saw the hole in his chest and the blood coming out, he thought he had only a few minutes left to live, so he started making calls.
After my mother, I was the next person he called. I was home crying when he called to say goodbye. He said he was dying, and that he loved me very much.
I don’t remember what happened after that. I just remember asking God why that was happening to us.
When my dad arrived at the hospital, the doctor looked at his exams, and asked him if he believed in God, because what had happened could only be described as a miracle. The bullet had turned nearly 360 degrees in his body. It entered the left side of his chest and exited the center, without damage to any bone or organ.
Some people said the bullet was deviated by a pen that was in his pocket, but I know that a plastic pen cannot stop a .38 caliber bullet. I know that my God’s hands can, and those hands are the reason my father is alive today