Sometimes you can feel a moment coming before it arrives. And sometimes, you just know.
It was about 2:30 in the morning, early ’94—maybe January. I was living in a small one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles with my three young children. My boys were just 4 and 7, sleeping side by side on a mattress laid flat on the bedroom floor. My baby girl was maybe 4 to 6 months old, curled up in her playpen next to the couch I was sleeping on.
Their dad and I were a couple but lived in different homes so that night, it was just me and my kids—and something stirred me awake. No loud bang, no noise. Just a deep gut feeling. I sat up, looked at my baby, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I scooped her into my arms.
That was the exact moment the earthquake hit.
The ground didn’t just shake—it rolled and rocked with an intensity I’d never felt. I ran to the bedroom, laid my daughter between her brothers, and then laid my entire body across them like a shield—five feet of me and 116 pounds, covering what mattered most. I told myself, If anything falls, it’ll fall on me—not them.
It felt endless, but it was probably just a minute or two. When the shaking stopped, my kids were wide-eyed and silent. I told the boys to stay with their sister while I navigated through the dark, no power, no light—just broken silence and my heartbeat. I grabbed the flashlight I kept hanging by the front door and finally saw what we’d lived through.
The apartment was destroyed.
Furniture, belongings—everything looked like a hurricane had rolled through. The entire building had slid forward off its foundation, tilted like a sinking ship. The stairs outside were cracked and split, except for a narrow one-foot strip hugging the left wall.
Neighbors and family had gathered in the street, calling out to me. So I carried each child down those stairs, one at a time, balancing on that tiny strip of safety, handing them off to waiting arms, then climbing back up for the next. We ended up spending the next three days across the street—no power, no water, just community and survival.
When daylight came, I climbed back into the apartment to gather whatever I could. That’s when I truly saw the miracle.
The only untouched spot in our entire home—the only one—was the corner of the bedroom where my kids and I lay. That bed, those children, protected not just by my arms but, I believe, by something greater.
I stood in the rubble and whispered, God had His hand upon us.
And I still believe that.
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