I’ll be honest—church and I have had an on-again, off-again relationship for most of my life. I wasn’t the person who woke up at the crack of dawn every Sunday, dressed in my finest clothes, and headed to service with a Bible tucked under my arm. I prayed when I remembered, thanked God for the obvious blessings, and sometimes whispered a quick plea when I needed help. But I didn’t exactly live like a model Christian.
Life just… got busy.
Work deadlines, family obligations, grocery runs, the never-ending to-do list—it all seemed to come first. And faith? Well, it stayed somewhere in the background, like a book on the shelf you keep meaning to read but never do.
That all changed last winter.
It was a bitterly cold January evening, the kind of night where the air feels like glass and every breath cuts through your lungs. I had just left my daughter’s house after spending the afternoon with her and my grandkids. They waved from the porch as I pulled away, warm light spilling from the windows into the darkness. The roads were slick, but I’d driven through countless winters before. I figured I’d be fine.
About halfway home, I rounded a curve on a quiet country road. That’s when my tires hit it—black ice. Invisible, deadly.
In a split second, my truck lost all control. The steering wheel spun uselessly in my hands. My headlights swung wildly across the dark trees, the snow, and the empty stretch of road ahead. My heart slammed against my ribs as the world outside became a spinning blur—like a carousel gone completely mad.
The truck skidded sideways, then slid off the asphalt. The crunch of tires over frozen ground roared in my ears until bam—the front end smashed into a tree at the bottom of a small embankment.
For a moment, there was nothing. No sound. No movement. Just stillness, as though time itself had paused to see if I’d made it through.
I sat gripping the wheel, chest tight, hands trembling. The smell of the deployed airbags filled the cab, mingling with the cold air seeping in through the cracked windshield. My seatbelt had locked hard against me, and I could already feel the bruises blooming on my collarbone and ribs.
But I was alive. No broken bones. No blood. Not even a headache. I knew in my gut—it should have been worse. Much worse.
As I tried to gather myself, I noticed something odd. Through the swirling snow, a figure appeared. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that seemed to carry both strength and warmth. His steps were steady, unaffected by the ice underfoot.
Without a word, he reached for my door. Somehow, it opened easily under his hand, though I’d been struggling with it moments before. He extended his arm and helped me out, his grip firm but gentle.
“You’re going to be alright,” he said simply. His voice was calm, like a blanket over a shivering child.
And then—just as suddenly as he had appeared—he turned and walked away into the falling snow.
I called after him, but he didn’t look back. Within seconds, he was gone, swallowed by the storm.
Moments later, flashing lights broke through the darkness. Paramedics rushed toward me, their boots crunching over the ice. One wrapped a blanket around my shoulders while another checked me over.
“I’m okay,” I told them, still scanning the road for the man who’d helped me. “But did you see where he went? The man who pulled me out?”
They exchanged puzzled looks. “Sir,” one finally said, “we didn’t see anyone else here. And…” He hesitated, glancing at the snow around my truck. “There aren’t any other footprints except yours.”
I stared at him, shivering—not from the cold, but from something deeper.
That night, lying in my bed, the events played over and over in my mind. The impossible timing. The warmth in his voice. The way he vanished without a trace.
I realized something then: God had been with me the whole time.
Maybe He sent an angel.
Maybe it was Jesus Himself.
I can’t explain it, and I don’t need to.
What I do know is this—my life was spared for a reason.
I’m still not the person who makes it to church every single Sunday. But my faith? It’s unshakable now. I talk to God every day—while I’m driving, while I’m cooking, while I’m sitting in the quiet before bed. I thank Jesus for every sunrise and every breath.
I see life differently now. Every moment feels like a gift I nearly lost that night.
And I’ve learned something important: You don’t have to be perfect for God to show up. You don’t have to have your life in perfect order, your Bible read cover-to-cover, or your prayers said at the same time every day.
God meets you right where you are—in your car on a dark, icy road, in your fear, in your brokenness—and reminds you that you are His. Always.