HE OPENING DOOR startled me. I was working late on staff salaries for the next day, and all the office staff had long since left. The cleaning staff were gone too, checked out one by one at the exit by the custodian, after which he would have locked the building and gone home.

I looked up. The man came in with deliberate movements. His jet-black eyes locked onto mine as he closed the door and leaned against it. He smiled smugly, masterfully, and I choked back a scream. There was no doubt he knew I knew exactly what he had in mind.

Flashback
In a dizzying rush of feeling I found myself remembering Mrs. Penberthy. As a girl of 8 I had asked this elderly Seventh-day Adventist woman about prayer. I'd been brought up to pray once a day, at night, sitting in bed with eyes shut and palms together, reciting, "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child. Pity my simplicity, suffer me to come to Thee. Amen."

Mrs. Penberthy, a motherly woman whose face held a healthy glow--it always looked as though it had just been scrubbed with soap and a smile--had told my mother that she spent an hour each morning with the Lord before leaving her bedroom. I just had to find out more, so I asked her about it. "I read my Bible, and kneel down and talk with the Lord, my heavenly Father," she told me.

"Why do you kneel?" I asked. I'd never seen anyone kneel.

"Out of respect for God," she said with gentle fervency. From that day on I knelt when I prayed each night and talked to the Lord.

As I grew older my faith deepened, and my prayers were no longer only once a day. I became active in our Calvinist church. At age 18 I accepted believer's baptism and was baptized in the Baptist church. But I remained an active member of my Calvinist church because I couldn't bear the thought of deserting my friends or turning away from the denomination into which I had been born.

He Was Staring at Me
I looked at the menacing figure whose presence had abruptly taken over my office, and knew I needed prayer--needed God--as never before. When getting employment information about this man five days earlier, I'd had misgivings about him. Tall, powerfully built and fairly good-looking, his education level well above that of the other cleaners in the company's employ, he just didn't seem to fit in.

Mustering all the calm I could, I asked, "What are you doing here?" My voice sounded muffled to my ears.

He chuckled, obviously deciding to enjoy this preliminary tantalizing game. His soft deadly voice said, "I don't know the way out. It's dark in the passage. You must come with me."

"You know the way out. Now please go."

His lips twisted in a smirk. I found my hands were shaking. He was utterly self-assured. The custodian would testify that all the cleaners had left the building before lockup time. This man could take his time now, savor the anticipation, then calmly walk over and fasten his hands on my throat. . . . Of course he'd kill me; the only witness to the assault would have to be eliminated. Then he could leave the building as he had cat-burgled his way in and turn up for work in the morning with an air of innocence.

"I'll get someone to accompany you out of the building," I said.

My outside phone was deactivated at the exchange, but I picked up the house phone. As my trembling fingers dialed number after number, I prayed with a great inner groaning: "Lord, please let someone be there! Let someone answer!" The ringing sounded impersonal, mocking.

I forced myself to glance at him. He was smiling broadly, a gloating, triumphant smile. I felt a chill at my heart and cold sweat on my forehead.

"You'll have to come with me," he whispered sibilantly.

I made up my mind. I'd jerk open the balcony door behind me and jump over the balustrade. Three stories down I'd hit the pavement. How horrifying, repugnant, the thought of taking my own life. But a clean death would be infinitely preferable to what that man had in his satanic mind. How desolating the thought that the reason for my suicide would never be known!

We could read each other's emotions. My fear gratified and thrilled him. As he folded his arms over his chest and gave way to inner laughter, I prayed, "Oh, dear Father, please, please help!"

Then Something Happened
I dialed the custodian's number for the umpteenth time. It rang--a forlorn sound, I felt. Something in me despaired. I put the phone back on its cradle . . . unaccountably lifted it once more, and shakily and beseechingly dialed the same number again, holding on as it rang and rang.

Incredibly, a woman's voice: "Yes?"

I felt faint, gasped for breath to steady myself, and blurted, "Please, would you come down to Room 314?"

Silence. Then, with a touch of impatience: "I have nothing to do with this building. Sorry, I can't. I have to go . . ."

Under what I can only describe as a prayer anointing, I was suddenly not shaking. In measured but urgent tones I said, "Please do not put down your phone. I will explain when you get here. Please come. Please come at once. Room 314."

Silence again, followed by a slow exhalation of breath and, reluctantly, "OK, I'll come."

The man was amused. Apparently my desperation was so great that I was faking a dialogue! His teeth, upper and lower, showed in his glee.

"Someone is coming," I told him.

He smirked knowingly, contemplated me unblinkingly. Then he nodded his sarcastic unbelief, let his arms drop to his sides, and jutted his head forward. Had he had enough of the cat-and-mouse posturings? Before my eyes his expression became grim, savage. He levered himself away from the door.

Perhaps I was playing for time when I blurted, "I thought you were too well-educated for the job of a cleaner." He snarled. I took a deep breath and held it, mesmerized by the menace of this man.

The stillness was broken by the hum of the approaching elevator.

The man froze. His jaw dropped. His eyes darted left and right. Then in a swirl of motion he turned, jerked open the door, and was gone.

Nothing Short of Providence
I sat still, aware of my pounding heart and the breath sighing out of my lungs. Then she was there, apprehensive, eyes alert.

"Thank my heavenly Father you came!" I exclaimed. "There was an intruder here. He heard your elevator and took off into the hallway."

"An intruder!" she gasped. I told her what had happened. She listened, appalled, then explained that she was the custodian's wife and had duplicate keys. "I wasn't supposed to be here. I shopped too late, bought too many things. Decided to leave some in my husband's office--he could bring the extra stuff home tomorrow. I had just put down my parcels when the phone rang. I refused to pick it up, and it stopped. Then it rang again. I stared at that phone, sure I shouldn't touch it, adamant I wouldn't. Yet something made me pick it up, and then I heard the urgency in your voice. It unnerved me. But at the same time I felt I had to do something. That feeling . . . and the very fact that I was there at all--it must have been God's doing!"

"It was God," I said. We stood holding each other's hands, her eyes as moist as mine.

She asked, "What about the intruder?"

"He took off like a shot," I told her. "Propelled by his guilt, I suppose. I think he will just disappear."

That night as I again thanked God in prayer I felt closer to Him than ever before, closer than I thought a human heart could bear. I pleaded for a yet closer walk with Him, a more intimate communion.

hree years later when I studied the three angels' messages of Revelation 14, as well as all the ramifications of those truths, I felt it was an answer to my prayer. God had saved me from taking my own life, and from an even worse fate, to lead me into a closer obedience of love and gratitude.

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Marie Pelser lives with her husband in Cape Town, South Africa.