It was a bright but rainy afternoon when I decided to take a stroll along the seafront near my home on the south coast of England. I had often found walking a useful time for engaging in deeper, prayerful thought, and on this occasion I had a decision to make. In a few weeks time, there would be a weekend event for young Christian Scientists in the north of the country. Should I go? Was it worth the effort? Did I have better things to be doing?

Now I realize that, in the grand scheme of things, this may not seem like a decision of earth-shattering importance. No doubt it pales in comparison to decisions about jobs, school, finances, or relationships. Nevertheless, I really wanted to do the right thing, since I was concerned that a poor decision could lead to some serious regrets. Perhaps my own human will, pride, or a sense of lack were obscuring the right answer. In any case, I could see I needed some inspiration to help lift the fog…

So now, as I considered these questions prayerfully, my thoughts began to lift. And almost as though my whole being was following the direction of my thoughts, I found myself looking up. I couldn’t help but notice that the weather conditions were ideal for rainbows, and before I had walked very far, I found myself surrounded by the most extraordinary rainbow I’ve ever seen. It was a vivid, complete double arc, and it appeared to be no more than a few yards away. As I walked, it moved right along with me, as if it were specifically guiding me to continue in the direction I was headed—up to the high cliffs at the end of the coastal route.  Read more here.

…We were having a blast, venturing onto increasingly difficult terrain. On about the fourth run of the day there were six of us skiing in single file down a shadowy, mogul-covered chute. When I glanced over my shoulder to see how my friend was doing, I turned back around just in time to almost crash into the person in front of me, who had stopped because the trail had turned to ice. I missed hitting him, but the quick adjustment I had to make sent me careening—at high speed—right into an icy mogul.

My boots released from their bindings as the tips of my skis dug into the hard snow, and I was thrown to the icy slope, landing hard on the back of my head and shoulder.

My friends were beside me very quickly, telling me not to move. I felt able to get up and continue skiing, though, so we continued, more slowly, down the mountain. My helmet had absorbed most of the impact, but I knew right away that something wasn’t quite right with my shoulder. It felt out of place, and each time I hit a bump I felt pain. I wish I could say I handled the suggestion of an injured shoulder right there on the slope, but my thought was full of fear: Was it dislocated or separated? Would I need surgery?

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