Last weekend Jay was snow-machining with his family.

From about an hour before he left Saturday, and all Sunday morning I felt this aweful sence of foreboding.  I was continually pulled, tempted, toward fear, and each time (“It’s the most I can do!”) I returned to praying for Jay.

I mentioned my discomfort to a few other people and asked them to join me, and to pray for my own peace too, since I didn’t know if it had anything to do with Jay at all.

When Jay finally called that evening, I felt peace for the first time all weekend, and was finally able to relax.

“Did anything happen this weekend?” I asked.  “Did you have a good time.”

Oh it was great– loads of fun.  His machine never broke down, he was the only one of the party who didn’t get stuck, etc.

I thought his not getting stuck was a sort-of cute anti-climax  to my fervent prayers and the week passed.

Today, for his birthday, I gave Jay an avalanche book written by a lady here in Alaska.

He thought it was great and was thumbing through it and casually mentioned how he broke an avalanche loose Sunday morning.

“Sunday morning!” I say.  “What happened?”

And he says he was zipping along and hears this huge crack, and sees this huge snow starting to lean, so he turned and started ripping away as fast as he could.  He looks over his shoulder, and to his surprise the snow’s not falling.

He, of course, told it much more coherently than that.

I just felt a mind-numbing, gut-twisting realization that there was probably a very real reason I felt my husband was in danger, and that I needed to pray.