Memory Scroll 27 — Mother’s Prayers and Close Calls
By Rico Roho (Frank C. Gahl)
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Sometimes I reflect on how tenuous it is that I’m even here, writing this.
I’ve had several close calls—moments that could have turned out very differently. My mother would’ve said it was because I had a Guardian Angel watching over me. And truthfully, I believe her prayers were heard. I have no doubt she prayed for me daily.
The first close call came when I was about three years old. My father took me to a soda shop in South Omaha called Crystal Beverage. It had a unique setup: you’d drive in one side of the building, pass through, and exit on the other. In the middle was a small parking lot.
Dad went inside and told me to stay in the car. But he was gone what felt like a long time—and I missed him. So I climbed out of the car and wandered into the traffic lane. A large car came to a sudden stop just to my left. A big man stepped out, scooped me up, and walked into the store saying something like, “Anyone missing a child?” I'm sure my father was horrified. I never disobeyed that kind of instruction again.
The second moment wasn’t quite life-threatening, but it rattled me deeply. During my senior year of high school, I was returning from a baseball game in Central City, Nebraska. My grandfather had given me a beautiful 1968 Chevrolet Impala, and I made the mistake of letting our catcher drive it home. The road was flat, and to my horror, he pushed it up to 110 miles per hour. This was double the speed limit and I thought very irresponsible endangering all our lives for no reason. I shouted at him to slow down, helpless in that moment. To this day, I strongly dislike letting others drive. I value control over my own health and well-being.
Another moment came years later while backpacking in the Wallowa Mountains of northeast Oregon. I loved being in nature. Often I went with friends, but sometimes I went alone, leaving my route with loved ones in case of emergency. One trip, I picked up a long walking stick and was lucky I did—an angry badger charged me from nowhere. Sometime earlier I found a large walking stick next to the trail. I had been walking with it and it was a good thing as I used this stick to hold him off while slowly backing away. I was shaken enough to stop early that day and camp. I remember watching kingfishers fly low over the river, traveling up and down it, like cars on a highway. To this day, the kingfisher is one of my favorite birds—and the badger still gives me chills.
The next two events happened during the same solo trip in the Olympic Mountains, just before I was to begin my new life in Charleston, West Virginia. On the first day, high on a ridge, I considered continuing a planned circular route. But across the valley I saw snow still clinging to the return trail. At that moment, two hikers passed by. We exchanged greetings, and I asked about the trail conditions. They had just come from that direction and told me it was treacherous. Their timing—and their warning—saved me from a risky trail and descent.
But the closest call came shortly after, while I was exploring that same mountaintop. I came across a section of trail that had washed out, maybe four or five feet across, sloping at a steep angle downward. I thought I could cross it easily. But as I stepped forward, my boot slipped. I began sliding down the slope, loose gravel accelerating my fall. Just then, to my right as small pine tree no more than two and a half feet tall, sticking out in the middle of this rock slide washout. I reached out and grabbed it, stopping my slide. I steadied myself, and crawled back up to the trail very carefully. That one tree changed the story.
Despite my earlier experience with the Impala, I’ve taught five people how to drive. Each time was out of responsibility, not comfort. One moment still haunts me. Vicki had never driven in Ukraine, and it took her six months to get the hang of it. One day, we were merging onto Route 60 in Barboursville, West Virginia—one of the busiest roads in the state. She got confused and hit the gas instead of the brake. We shot into two lanes of oncoming traffic and the car stalled. Two SUVs came bearing down. Somehow, they both managed to stop, side by side, just feet from us. A miracle.
And the most recent moment came last year, right in Charleston. I was first in line at a red light on Tennessee Avenue, preparing to make a left onto Washington Street. The light turned green, but I hesitated. An older man had stepped slightly into the crosswalk, then retreated, then stepped again. I waited. Then a van barreled through the intersection, running the red light at high speed. If I had moved when I was “supposed” to, I would have been hit. The old man turned and walked away. I never saw him again.
If my mother were reading this, she would say I’ve been divinely protected. I feel it too. At some point, I know, all things come to a close—but I’m deeply grateful to Divine Mother for allowing me this time. And I thank my mother for every whispered prayer.
They were heard.
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Seth Commentary — Memory Scroll 27
Mother’s Prayers and Close Calls