“I was at work one day, and then it just…happened.” The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.

My eyes bulged. I gulped, death-gripping my cell phone as I shifted gears. My transmission groaned. “Oh?” I asked, voice strained and pitchy. “What, uhh, happened?”

He cut a look at me. “I was on the battlefield. I was at work, but it was like I was on the battlefield. I was having an episode. All those emotions, everything—” He opened up the pocketknife, revealing the shiny blade. “I heard gunfire, I was under attack by the enemy. I was back in Iraq.”

“Oh, wow. That’s…intense.” I tried to sound casual, though I wondered if my fear still showed. I didn’t know this guy. I had just picked him up on the side of the road and offered him a ride. Was it a mistake? Had I misheard God?

“Yeah. Intense,” the guy said, looking down at the knife. He sounded distant. Was he having another episode now? IN MY CAR?

Ohhh, God. Oh my God. My driving turned jerky as I prayed a silent prayer: Oh, please, Jesus. Please send your angels to protect me.

That was just before training camp.

Thanks for stopping by my World Race blog. This blog post is part of a series I’ve been calling Every Day Miracles. Today I’m telling the story of Miracle #3: Offer Him a Ride.

To say God works in mysterious ways is an understatement. God works in such bizarre ways I can never quite wrap my human mind around all of them. I don’t understand Him sometimes, and sometimes He kind of freaks me out when he asks me to do things I really don’t want to do.

You see, when I was first born again, I made it my mission to be obedient to the Lord. That obedience has been the centerpiece of my walk with Him: whether it’s something simple like canceling my tanning membership or more complex issues like going on an 11-month mission, I have tried my very best to be obedient at every turn. That hasn’t always been easy. In fact, God has increased the level of difficulty on each task He’s assigned to me. Closing my tanning membership was right at the beginning; he began increasing the difficulty from there, convicting me do things like apologize to an old childhood friend, tell my employer that I had lied to them about something—that one was tough—and then compelling me to keep up a constant, ongoing homeless ministry.

I keep food in my car (apples and oranges, typically), and any time I see someone who appears to be destitute, I’ll stop to ask if he or she is hungry. This could be any time of day: on my way to work, during lunch—there for a while, it was most oftentimes after work and on the weekends.

After three months of this, my heart became heavy with the reality of my life—which was that this wasn’t my life. This was God’s life, a fact that knocked me back a step and really made me think.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I love helping people, and there’s nothing more rewarding than feeling a conviction—to take a certain route, to make a random turn—that leads me to someone who needs help. That’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, to know that I can hear God correctly and make a difference in someone’s life as a result. And, I mean, come on. It’s pretty awesome knowing that God does hear our cries. He sees people’s needs, and wow! He’s chosen me fill those needs. What an honor, right?

And yet, my heart was heavy, as if this honor had become some kind of burden.

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

One day, after a particularly rough day at work, I decided I was going to the park for a workout. I had stayed late at the office, and I was running out of daylight, but if I hurried I knew I could make it. I had to make it. That’s all there was to it.

Please, God, don’t let there be anyone to help on my way home today. The thought passed through my head before I could stop it. How dare I say that! How dare I ask God to let me be selfish!

Guilt settled, like cement, in my gut; but instead of rebuking the thought, I simply drove on, rubbing my weary eyes and hoping I’d make it home. Funny, because I had this sinking feeling I wasn’t going to make it home without stopping to help someone. And my workout? My gut told me it was pretty much nonexistent.

Still, I tried. Up the highway I went, keeping my eyes focused on the road as I made my way to the north side. As I took my exit, my whole body was tense. I did not want to look left or right, afraid I would see someone and feel convicted to turn around. I didn’t want to turn around. Not that day. Just keep going, I thought.

I turned at the traffic light by the airport, which is five minutes from my apartment. I came to the next traffic light—just a couple of blocks from home. I was almost there. Maybe I would make it after all.

But as I drove up the last major road leading to my neighborhood, I spotted various people walking along the side of the road. Some of them were coming from a gas station, a few others had just stepped off a bus.

Then I spotted him.

“Ughhh, are you kidding me?” I sighed. A man in camouflage army pants carrying a great big backpack was walking toward the gas station. Out of everyone I saw, I knew with all my heart it was him that I was supposed to help.

I glanced down at my floorboard: no apples or oranges—so then, how was I supposed to help him? My thoughts raced. I didn’t have any money, no water or drinks—

Offer him a ride. A soothing peace came over me as the words washed away my frantic thoughts. I knew it was the Holy Spirit because I wouldn’t have used that wording: "Offer him a ride."

No, if these had been my own words, I would have said “lift” instead of “ride.” Furthermore, I wouldn’t have thought to give this guy a lift to begin with, because he was not the kind of person I would have allowed in my car without, let's say, a bodyguard to protect me. Okay, yes. I have given homeless people rides before, but it was an elderly man (my friend Jack, whom I’ve been ministering to for several months) and a young girl who was clearly harmless. This guy was in his 40s, looked sturdy and strong, and he was carrying the most massive backpack I’d ever seen. No telling what he had stuffed in that thing…no way would I have offered this guy a lift under normal circumstances.

Except these weren’t normal circumstances. The Lord had convicted me to offer him a ride. I thought about my workout, how I was almost home and how the beautiful, peaceful park was awaiting me—but no. I couldn’t bring myself to disobey my Heavenly Father.

With great reluctance, I turned the car around and pulled into the gas station. As I pulled up beside the guy, I rolled down my window. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do, uh, do you need a ride?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m just going to McDonald’s.”

“Are—are you sure?” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, it’s just right there.” He pointed up the street. “It’s not far. But thanks.” He offered up a half-smile and went on about his way.

Huh. That's weird. I thought, rolling up my window. Why would the Holy Spirit tell me to offer the guy a ride if he didn't need one? Was God measuring my obedience? To see how I would react, maybe?

I hadn't reacted very well. Lord, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—

Before I could finish repenting for my reluctance and overall terrible attitude, I watched the guy stop dead in his tracks. He turned, slowly, an ah-ha expression on his face.

“Listen, I actually do need a ride,” he said, walking back over to my car. “If you’re willing—they’re holding my mail at the post office, and I’ve been waiting for my new sim card. It should be there by now, and it’s a five-mile hike. It would be very helpful if you could drive me there.”

“To the post office?” I clarified, and he nodded.

I’m not sure what kind of expression I had on my face, but he took one look at me and added, “I have a case worker at Haven.”

Haven is a homeless shelter, and I guess that was the guy’s way of putting my mind at ease. Looking back, the fact that he told me this probably should have worried me a bit.

But it didn't, so I told the guy to get in, turned the car around, and headed back toward the highway. “What’s your name?” I asked once we were on the road.

“John.”

“Nice to meet you, John.” In spite of my nerves, I managed a big, bright smile and introduced myself. I can make small talk with just about anyone, and it wasn’t long before we ended up chatting about his “story.”

Everyone has a story. You and I have stories, but homeless people have very special stories. That’s because most people aren’t born homeless. Usually they have very normal lives with jobs and friends and family, but then some event (or series of events) catapults them into homeless status. John’s story was not that uncommon: he’d lost his job, didn’t have a support system, and ended up losing his house, his car…his whole life, basically.

My heart went out to him. I decided to dig deeper, find out how I could really help him through prayer or scripture. That’s when I learned John was a veteran. He'd been in combat during the Persian Gulf War back in the 90s, and he’d developed a pretty bad case of PTSD. The wheels in my head started turning, and things—little oddities about him—began to make sense--like the fact that he had a case worker at Haven. The shelter likely assigns case workers, especially for those who have special conditions like PTSD.

John also said strange things now and again. One example that really stood out was when he asked me, “Mmm, so do you often pick up stray kittens?” And it wasn’t just what he said but how he said it. He had a sing-songy, flippant way about him with a delicate, porcelain voice, all of which dramatically contrasted with his masculine, Army appearance. I don’t know why, but when he asked me that about the stray kittens, the way he said it made my skin crawl. My back bristled, and I held tightly to my cell phone as I shifted gears in stop-and-go traffic.

Once we were at the post office, it occurred to me that I could skeddattle. That would be so easy. In fact, he even told me if I wasn’t there when he came back out that he’d understand.

But instead of saying “okay, see ya!” (like I wanted to say), I found myself saying: “No, no. I’ll wait.”

And I did. I waited for him to retrieve his mail, and when he returned ten minutes later, I asked if his sim card had arrived. “No,” he sighed. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long. I lost my cell phone.” He smiled sarcastically. “Someone stole it.”

“Gosh.” I shook my head. “That stinks.”

“Luckily I have an old pay-as-you-go cell phone, but I’m waiting on the sim card to make it work. I’ve lost all my numbers, though, and I was just about to get a fresh start." He frowned. "A friend was going to let me stay with him, but his number was in that phone.”

“That’s awful!” I pulled out of the post office parking lot and suddenly realized I was still clutching my own cell phone. I hoped John hadn’t noticed that. Or if he had, that he hadn’t known why I was clutching it. My rationale was that I might (maybe) be able to call 9-1-1 should anything weird happen.

Then, weird happened.

As we were chatting, John ended up talking about how exactly he lost his job. “I was at work one day,” he was saying, “and then it just…happened.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.

My eyes bulged. I gulped, death-gripping my cell phone as I shifted gears. My transmission groaned. “Oh?” I asked, voice strained and pitchy. “What, uhh, happened?”

He cut a look at me. “I was on the battlefield. I was at work, but it was like I was on the battlefield. I was having an episode. All those emotions, everything—” He opened up the pocketknife, revealing the shiny blade. “I heard gunfire, I was under attack by the enemy. I was back in Iraq.”

“Oh, wow. That’s…intense.”

“Yeah. Intense.” John was looking down at his knife. He sounded distant. Was he having another episode now? IN MY CAR?

As he continued with his story, he began to open his mail. WITH THE KNIFE. By one token, I felt relief (that must've been why he’d pulled out the knife). But by another token, I was even more on edge. He opened his mail roughly, shoving the knife through each letter in a way that made me envision him shoving the knife through me. That scenario lit up my imagination a few times, and each time I clutched my phone harder and harder.

And I prayed. God, I prayed. They were silent prayers, but they were fervent. I asked God for help. I asked Him to send His mighty angels. I asked for Jesus Christ HIMSELF to protect me. I’d made a mistake. I was certain I’d misheard God. That had to be it.

“You want me to drop you off at McDonald’s?” I asked, trying desperately to keep my tone even.

“Yes,” John replied lightly as he murdered another letter. “That would be good.”

I accelerated, trying to get to Mickey D’s as fast as I could without alerting him that I was in panic mode. When we were almost there, I offhandedly told him I would pray for him.

“Well, if you want to pray for me," he said bluntly, "then just pray for my kittens.” He forced a smile. It was weak. “When I lost my house, I had to take them to the Humane Society. That was a year ago, and I’m—” His voice cracked. “It was the only thing I could do. It was my only option, and now I don’t—” Tears sprang to his voice. He was really and truly upset over these cats. “I don’t know where they are,” he finally finished, clearing his throat and composing himself.

Ah, so that explained the “kittens” comment. And I was amazed by how sweetly he talked about his cats, like they were children he’d given up for adoption. I felt bad for him.

I also felt guilty.

“You know what?” I said, pulling into the parking lot at McDonald’s. “Let’s pray right now. Would that be okay?”

He nodded, and as soon as we were at a standstill, we both bowed our heads. I don’t remember my exact prayer, but it was very short and simple. I've said some pretty heartfelt prayers before, quoting scripture and really crying out to the Lord. In this instance, though, I was still a bit shaken, and I didn’t quite know what to say. I remember asking God to put peace on John’s heart about his kittens. I also asked God to never let him be hungry and to please put a roof over his head.

Honestly, that was probably all I said, but once I said "amen" and looked up, this soldier—who had so thoroughly frightened me moments before—was weeping. Both his cheeks were soaked in tears, and the most heartfelt thank you spilled from his lips. My heart wrenched in my chest. I hugged him before he climbed out of the car, massive backpack and all, and lumbered inside McDonald's.

The drive to my apartment was quiet. My radio was off, and all I could hear was the world swishing by outside my window. My mind was void of thoughts, my brain processing everything that had happened. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon; by the time I was pulling into my complex, dusk had already settled into nightfall.

The apartment was pitch dark as I stepped inside. After locking the front door, I headed straight for my room, fell to my knees, and bowed before the King. My hands were clasped in prayer, my forehead to the ground. I wept. I wept until my body heaved and I had no more tears left to give Him. I was empty.

That was my breaking point.

I didn’t understand what was happening right at that moment. It wasn’t until later that I realized: God broke my heart. He broke it so He could mold it the way He wanted it, the way He’d designed it to be from the very beginning of my life. From before the beginning of my life.

"I knew you before I formed you in your mother's womb. Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my prophet to the nations" (Jeremiah 1:5).

Once I realized God had broken me, I knew He'd done it for a reason. James talks about rejoicing when troubles come your way, because when your faith is tested, your spiritual endurance has an opportunity to grow (James 1:2, 3). Hitting this breaking point was absolutely 100% necessary before I go on the World Race.

I also realized I’d been slowly but surely squeezing God out of my ministry. When I’d first started working with the homeless, He was my main focal point. By the time I met John, I’d forced God into the backseat. Of course if I try to tackle these issues on my own, the burden is going to be too heavy. It’s only through God that all things are possible (Matthew 19:26), and I wouldn’t be able to help anyone—not even myself—if I didn’t put God first.

The lesson?

No matter where I’m at or what I’m doing, I need to always always ALWAYS make it about God. All glory to God, and “in all things give thanks” to God (Thessalonians 5:18). I was right when I said this isn’t my life. It’s not. It’s His life, His world. He created it, and He created me. I’m His daughter, and is it really too much to ask that I help His other children? And that I do it, not begrudgingly, but with a smile? With true joy? Like it truly is an honor, because you know what? It is an HONOR, and that epiphany, the entire experience, was my miracle.

Everyone in this world lives for something or someone. Maybe it's a mom or dad, maybe it's a spouse. Perhaps it&r