Not many years ago, a man named Patrick wanted to visit the Holy Land. He knew that planes were being hijacked and blown up because of tensions in the region, and being a careful, extremely organized man, he did everything in his power to assure the safety of his journey. But just minutes after takeoff, a bomb exploded under his seat, and Patrick was blown out the side of the plane.
As he fell, Patrick thought back on the choices he had made, all his efforts now apparently so worthless. He had chosen Pan Am rather than TWA. he changed flights in Switzerland, rather than the more troubled airports in Germany or Italy. He’d chosen to travel on a Saturday rather than midweek. And just minutes before take off, he switched from the aisle to a window seat.
Somewhere around eight thousand feet, Patrick’s situation was grim indeed. From the depth of his faith, he called out for help. “Saint Francis,” he cried, “please help me!” Amazingly a hand reached down from the heavens, caught Patrick by the scruff of his jacket, and held him suspended in midair, thousands of feet above the earth.
Just catching his breath, Patrick became aware of a voice belonging to the hand. And the voice asked, “Which Saint Francis?”