Generally, life-altering events occur a handful of times in one’s life. Despite their scarcity, however, such episodes carry a power to humble the proudest of minds and an ability to compel anyone to reflect on life in its entirety. It was just such an event several years ago that dramatically altered my views on life and God.

January mornings in Idaho are breath-taking experiences; the brisk chill and bright blue sky are both pierced by an intense, white sun that dazzles the eyes and warms the soul. It was an innocent morning like this that signaled the beginning of a day that would brand itself into my memory.

A day-long trip to the Pommerelle ski resort was on our agenda for the day. As my family and our friends traveled down the snow-bordered highways, we passed the time by telling jokes and laughing. The minivan itself probably wasn’t so jovial, due to its excessive burden: three hyper children packed the rear seat (my sister Christina, our friend Benjamin, and myself), two adults occupied the driver’s and passenger’s seats (my father and mother, respectively), and Benjamin’s mother, Donna, sat in the middle.

"Steep," "icy," and "hazy" described the worsening conditions as we neared Pommerelle. Despite the threatening weather, our attention was captivated by a splendid view rushing past outside, and we were silenced by the magnificence of the crystalline, sparkling snow blanketing the scene. All of us were unaware of the ominous curve ahead, which shared the common attributes of mountain roads: sheer cliffs unprotected by guardrails. Our attention was exchanged from the side windows to the windshield when my mother’s urgent "Slow down, Ted," filled the van’s interior.

No amount of brake pumping or wheel turning could coax the van from its present course. No feeling could surpass the heart-stopping dread resulting from Donna’s repeated cry of "Pray to Jesus!" combined with our seemingly slow-motion approach towards the abyss before us. No explanation save a miracle can describe what ensued:

As the van gracefully neared the chasm, our bodies were seized by weightlessness, as if we had just begun the first terrifying plummet of a roller coaster. The van then struck a short, shallow snowbank, leaned precariously forward, and… stopped. My mother heaved her door open, and did likewise with the sliding side door. Benjamin, the epitome of bravery, clambered over Christina with a loud "Every man for himself!" Donna then tore Christina from the van, and my dad and I were the last to emerge.

A few pictures snapped after the incident graphically display the impossible angle at which the car rested. Only this photographic proof can testify to doubters that the hand of God held the van from slipping over the cliff that day. Yet one need only question or observe me to affirm that His other hand simultaneously touched my life in a spectacular way by intensifying my faith in Him.