A God Wink in the Astrodome - Marsha Rose
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My husband and I once accepted an invitation to an Astros game at the Houston Astrodome with a couple connected to the Houston Chronicle. Baseball had never struck me as a dangerous sport, and I certainly wasn’t expecting anything unusual that night.
Just before the game, I had finished reading a story called Where Miracles Happen by Joan Wester Anderson. In it, a father at Wrigley Field suddenly sensed a warning: “Janet is going to be hit in her temple with a fly ball. If you don’t take action, she’ll be seriously injured or killed.” He began quietly practicing sliding his arm in front of his four‑year‑old daughter’s head. Moments later, Pete Rose hit a screaming line drive that shot across the field like an arrow—straight toward Janet. The father reacted instantly, shielding her with his arm. The ball struck him with tremendous force, but his daughter was unharmed.
That story was fresh in my mind as we took our seats behind the dugout, just to the right of home plate. The game itself was uneventful until a batter hit a foul ball with such power that the entire crowd gasped. We watched it rocket straight up toward the top of the Astrodome. People around us murmured, “When that ball comes down, someone is really going to get hurt.”
No one could see where it would land. The game paused. The crowd fell silent. Time seemed to hang in the air.
In that stillness, the Wrigley Field story returned to me with surprising clarity. A quiet thought formed in my mind: “That ball is going to hit you. You need to prepare.” Without drawing attention, I began practicing leaning forward so that if the ball came my way, it would strike my back instead of my head or neck.
Finally, the ball reappeared, falling fast. No one around me moved. I leaned forward as far as I could. A moment later, the ball rolled down the back of my chair and lodged there.
People immediately cried out, “Is she hurt?” The manager of the Astrodome hurried down the aisle and announced that an ambulance was already on its way. Before anyone could process what had happened, the man in front of me reached back and took the ball from behind my seat.
The crowd settled, the game resumed, and life moved on—but the next day, our friends from the Chronicle received calls from WGN‑Chicago asking about the incident, since the Astros had been playing the Cubs.
I’ve always called that moment a God Wink—a personal, unmistakable touch of divine care. Not coincidence. Not luck. A reminder that God sees, knows, and intervenes.
“Who is like you—majestic in holiness, awesome in glory, working wonders?” Exodus 15:11
