Lawrence and Nancy’s 3-year-old son fell out of his second-story bedroom window at 5:20 p.m. on August 14.

I sent a card a few days later saying I was praying, offering to do laundry, and leaving my phone number. The other night Nancy phoned and asked me to bring a gallon of 1 percent milk. When I arrived she was sitting calmly and reading a book about ballerinas to 5-year-old Matty, while little Sammy was upstairs more or less bubble-wrapped in a crib, chatting to himself, itching to play, and healing from a tidy crack through his skull—but otherwise expected to be fine.

Nancy walked me to my car and pointed up at his room. This is an old stone house with high ceilings, and the offending window was pretty high. Because I had already heard Sammy was doing well, I expected to see the obstacles that broke his fall and gave him a softer landing than any of us had a right to expect. Nothing. No branches, no dormer or other first floor protrusion, no convenient rhododendron, or even the minimal padding that a lawn affords; Sammy fell on concrete.

It was as if God went out of his way to make it clear that no one gets the glory on this but Him (with a tip of the hat to the angels).

Of course you might ask why, if God is so amazing, He didn’t stop Sammy from falling out in the first place. There you got me. All I know is that people were mobilized to pray and cook and watch Matty, and so it seems that God was giving lots of folks an opportunity to love in ways they wouldn’t have otherwise. And that’s the best I can do with that.