I was reading a friend’s blog recently and four
words jumped out at me, “There are no accidents.” I, too, believe there is a purpose for
everything. And yes, luck sometimes plays
a hand.
I remembered a chapter from Sergei Kourdakov's book where
he got involved in some bad business dealings with his friends. The situation turned serious after the meeting
was over and Sergei stepped outside the building:
I [Sergei] figured
the meeting was over . . . “I’m going to go down and get some fresh air. I’ll meet you outside.” I walked down the corridor, the two flights
of stairs, and out the door to the street.
The moment I stepped outside, an explosion ripped the air and blew up
right in my face. I felt a hot, burning
sensation beneath my ribs and a fierce impact that knocked the wind out of
me. In a daze I looked down and
discovered I was bleeding profusely; my shirt was already covered with blood
and my military jacket was starting to get soaked.
I’m shot!
I’m shot! I
dropped to my knees.
“You’ve got
to be the luckiest guy around, Sergei,” [his friend exclaimed] while he emptied
my raincoat pocket, just over my left breast.
The bullet had gone through my thick address book, all my identification
papers, plus all my clothes—raincoat, jacket, shirt, undershirt—to hit me. It was imbedded in my skin.
-Sergei
Kourdakov, The Persecutor (Chapter 9,
pgs. 100-101)
Everything happens
for a reason, even if we don’t understand why.
Sergei would have been killed if he hadn’t had his pocket full of thick papers
that absorbed the impact from the bullet.
It wasn’t his time. He would live
to come to America. While writing A Rose for Sergei, I had to keep
reminding myself . . . there are no accidents.
