In Scotland a family by the name of Clark had a dream: husband and wife with their nine children wanted to emigrate to the United States. To make that dream a reality, they struggled, scrimped, and saved. Finally they managed to accumulate enough money and obtain all the paperwork they needed to take the trip and begin a new life in a new land. Ship reservations were made and the family was ecstatic. Then, as often happens, tragedy struck. Seven days before they were to leave the youngest of the children, a little boy, was bitten by a dog. The bite wasn’t serious; the doctor stitched the lad up in no time at all. The tragedy was the doctor also had to hang a yellow sign on the Clark’s front door. The yellow signed warned everybody to stay away: there was a possibility, a very small chance, that the boy had contracted rabies from the bite of the unknown dog. Their ship was to sail in one week, the family was quarantined for two. They would have to stay behind as their ship, and their dreams, sailed into the sunset.
The father, outraged at what he felt was the unjust, unfair hand that he had been dealt, went down to the pier to stare as the ship set out. Furious at God, frustrated with his son; he cried and he cursed. He stomped home in a foul mood. He stayed that way, too. Then only a few days after his vessel had left port he got word that on April 15th the very ship which was to have brought them to a new life, had been sunk. The Titanic had gone down. As it disappeared, it had taken with it the lives of over 1,500 passengers. Hearing that news, Mr. Clark’s attitude was instantly transformed. Excitedly, enthusiastically, eagerly, he hugged his son. Plainly, powerfully, and prayerfully, he thanked his God. Their lives had been spared. Their tragedy had been turned into a triumph.
