4-leafed Clover of Shadrach et al

It's too bad that St Patrick used a clover to analogize concept of the Trinity because the comparison never made any sense. How could it?  There is no holy trinity.

But yet, as a symbol of good-fortune, a four-leaved clover does make perfect sense for showing that God protects us, as He did with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace, and did obviously in the observer's case, for although many people have found 4-leafed clovers without good result, the ones found this time were quite meaningful.

For the observer, in having found only two 4-leafed clovers in his entire life, and both within moments of each other at the base of mountain springs near the US/Canadian border, the clovers signified that God was indeed with him; he at the time unaware of how much danger he was actually in.

The adventure that compares this

As he’s recounted—
Immediately after drinking spring water pouring from the mountainside, in rapid succession an enormous stag came up to me, stared, snorted and lept away, a large bear cub ran the road before me and a bald eagle circled in curiosity.
Each sighting seemed to confirm that I was under guard, because, as it turned out, my situation was dire.
The mountain man with whom I was staying—whom I'd sought as perhaps having clues to the mysteries of life—had probably killed his wife as I later learned, and was likely plotting my demise as well. He'd already taken credit for deaths of others and the mysterious drainage of a nearby lake, and was a man who, as I prepared to leave, blurted of wanting to teach me to kill with my mind.
As I packed my pickup to leave for good, as he stood defiantly angry in front of the cabin we'd shared, a sudden mighty ground wind came around from his left,—from nowhere—beneath the thick pine forest canopy to unnaturally sweep dirt and leaves all over me. 
If that's all he could do, then I was lucky.
Taken in by a nearby family with the father out-of-town for work, the wife and her gay son both attempted sexual dalliance with me. Of course, the mountain man took to stalking me and telling people I'd had AIDS, which I didn't.
Then police followed me everywhere for suspecting Aryan Brotherhood ties. Local preachers denounced me from their pulpits, and of course I was continually staving off the area's desperate housewives.
Plus, drunken hllbillies assumed I'd blabbed of their whoring by swearing ‘to get me.’ And since everything had suddenly became my fault, I was unable to gain even the most simple of jobs in a nearby town. So I packed up to leave for good.
Back at the cabin, after a suspicious demonology exorcism (not of God), our little gasoline-powered electric generator run for a full three hours instead of its usual ninety-minutes—which I’d hoped was Godly vindication ... until it melted—after which the cabin's kitchen floor domed-up and collapsed, and the families' pickup truck broke the day my belongings were to be taken to the train.
Selling my own failing pickup truck for airline ticket money, I was driven to the next airport in a small borrowed car while my stuff languished behind.
Back in Los Angeles, I was rehired that very evening by a boss I'd left three months earlier, and bought a neighbor's car with money he lent me.  Just like that.
My belongings languished up north in the families' cabin, even though continually assured of their not opening any boxes, yet they'd never send even a bit of it despite the monies I mailed.
Then they moved 300 miles to another town in another state, and taking all my stuff with them. Very odd.
So six months later a retired pastor from my church announced of being sent as an interim pastor to the town where they had relocated, and found his new church only six blocks from the relocated family who had my stuff.  He had already agreed to claim my belongings.
He and his wife retrieved it all and sent it to me, admitting that God obviously delegated them to retrieve my things, since the little church hadn't really wanted him -- which hurt his feelings.
I don't think it was so much that the little church refused his wisdom, that hurt his feelings, but more the fact that after having sparred with me about who was godlier, him or me, his hurt came from having been packed off to fetch my leavings.
And although decent about the incident, after he returned he'd cop a thousand-yard-stare while emitting a low whistle whenever I was around, as if trying to wish me away.
I did keep those clovers for many more months—even laminating them for posterity— but I later gave them to a little boy I felt needed them. For I no longer did.
I knew God had rescued me and would stand with me for the rest of my life...