If you don’t believe in angels, you may not fully appreciate this story, but it happened exactly the way I’m telling it. I would be skeptical myself, if it hadn’t happened to me.
Some years ago, I had flown to Memphis, Tennessee from Virginia to pick up our little station wagon, load it full of clothing and household goods, and drive it back to Newport News, where I had recently accepted my first full-time ministry position. I had spent most of the day packing as much as I could fit into the car, and when I was finished, I drove to my realtor’s house which was just off the highway on the East edge of town. Being good friends and fellow church members, the realtor and his family fed me a quick, but delicious meal, prayed for a safe trip, and saw me to my car.
I got into the car and waved goodbye, but when I tried to start the car, the engine turned over, but wouldn’t start. I tried to pump the accelerator, but something seemed off, so the realtor and his son came over to help. After a few minutes of poking around, the son, who was a good shade-tree mechanic, found the problem; a missing cotter pin in the accelerator linkage. With little effort, he made an emergency repair with heavy gauge wire and I was finally able to get back on Interstate 40 and on my way just before sundown.
I was heading east toward Nashville with my little wagon loaded to the ceiling with personal items, and my bicycle strapped to the roof with bungee cords. As the sun began to set behind me, I turned on my headlights, but noticed that they and the dash lights were unusually dim. I assumed that perhaps the alternator wasn't charging the battery properly, but decided to keep going for fear I wouldn’t be able to restart the car if I stopped and turned the engine off. I was just over a hundred miles into my journey, and needless to say, I was very concerned.
Not ten minutes later, I noticed the engine beginning to sputter and the lights were almost completely out. Almost instinctively, I reached for the key and turned it in the ignition as if to restart it. For some inexplicable reason, doing so caused the engine to start and the lights to come back on, but when I released the key from the start position, everything went black. I turned the key a second time, and once again, everything returned to life and then when I released my grip on the key, it all stopped. I tried holding the key in the start position, but after a few minutes, my hand began to cramp. I found a screwdriver in the glove compartment, and slipping its blade into the slot on the top of the key, I managed to wedge it between the steering column and the dash to keep the key set in the start position. For the moment, this seemed to do the trick. I had dim lights, but the engine was running.
I began praying for Divine intervention, or at least for an exit, hoping that I might be able to find help and a place to spend the night. Having made the trip from Memphis to Nashville many times previously, however, I was well aware that there was not much in the way of civilization between Jackson, TN (which I’d already passed) and the west side of Nashville. The sun had set completely, and I noticed that even with my makeshift key wedge, the dash lights were growing dimmer by the minute. Fear began to set in, and I could feel my heart rate increasing ever so steadily.
My headlights finally had diminished so much that I could no longer see the road in front of me. Not even the moonlight was enough by which to navigate on this very dark October night. I slowed and slipped the car over onto the shoulder of the road where the dim glow of my headlights reflected slightly against the continuous row of markers beside the road. I had visions of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a car full of my family's most prized possessions and my bicycle on the roof. I began praying harder.
My headlights finally dimmed completely, and as they did, I whispered yet another plea for help. Almost immediately, I noticed faint headlights in my rear-view mirror. I slowed a bit, and as the car drew closer behind me, I noticed that its headlights illuminated reflective markers along the road’s edge. Able to see my way a bit now, I sped up slightly, hoping to find an exit before the car passed me and left me alone in the dark once again. Because the car was losing power, it kept slowing down, but, as if by design, so did the driver of the car behind me. Almost as if our cars were somehow attached, though several hundred feet apart, the driver of the mysterious car remained the same distance behind me, as his headlights continued to indicate the margin of the highway to my right.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally saw lights off to my left in the distance, indicating that there might be an exit and, perhaps, a service area ahead. As I approached the exit, a green interstate highway sign flashed by announcing the exit. My hope was rekindled. As I drew closer, I noticed clusters of lights and the top of what looked like a service station sign to my left. I veered right and headed up the off-ramp, praying that God would forgive me for running the stop sign I had spotted at the top of the ramp. I was certain that if I stopped, I would not be able to restart the car. I slowed to a crawl, looked both ways, and very gingerly turned left and crawled across the overpass where I spotted just ahead on my left, a small service station with a two-bay garage just past a friendly looking café. Just across the road was a small, but clean and inviting motel.
As I had slowly crossed back over the highway on the overpass, I made a point to glance to my right to catch a glimpse of my nighttime benefactor’s tail lights. To my amazement, there wasn’t a car in sight. I looked left and then right again up and down that long, lonely stretch of Interstate 40, but saw absolutely nothing. I looked in my rearview mirror to see if, perhaps, the car had followed me off the highway, but there was no sign of a car anywhere. My expressway escort had simply vanished!
I turned into the drive of the service station just as they were rolling down the service bay doors of the garage. One of the attendants motioned me into the empty bay and I rolled in and came to a stop just as the engine died completely. I apologized for my timing and asked the attendant if he could possibly charge my battery overnight, and he kindly agreed. I left the car in the bay, took my bicycle down from atop the car, and rode it across the road to the motel. As I entered the motel office, the night clerk announced that he only had one room left, but that I was welcome to it. I paid him cash, checked in, and got my room key. I thanked him, and as I walked toward the door, a sweet family of four walked in looking for a room for the night. The night clerk explained that I had taken the last room and that he wasn't aware of any motels between here and Nashville. I felt bad for the tired family, but was so very thankful that I had a place to sleep for the night.
I hopped back on my bike and road across the road and up to the front door of the café just as the last customers were coming out. I slipped in the door and was greeted by a friendly woman with a kind face and a broom in her hand. “We're closing up," she announced, almost apologetically, “but you look tired and hungry. Let me check with the cook to see what we have left, and if you’ll take whatever we have, I’ll fix you a really nice dinner.” I nodded affirmatively and sat down in an empty booth. She smiled and made her way to the kitchen, assuring me that I could stay and eat while they were cleaning up before closing for the day.
What came from the kitchen a few minutes later was one of the best home-cooked meals I’d ever eaten. The kind woman checked on me several times as she stacked chairs and swept. When I had finished, I pulled out my wallet to pay for my meal, but my newfound friend saw what I was doing and waved me off. “I’ve already cleared out the cash register, Hon, and it would be more trouble than it’s worth to try to ring up your meal. Just consider it on the house.” I thanked her profusely, left a generous tip, and mounted my bike to ride back across the road to the motel.
The next morning, I woke up early, scheduled an appointment with a dealership in Nashville to work on my car, and then called friends who lived there and asked if I could hang out with them while my car was in the shop. I made it to Nashville and to the dealership without a hitch. My friends came to pick me up from the dealership, took me to their home, fed me, entertained me until my car was ready, and then took me back to pick it up. Several hundred dollars later—evidently, I had fried the entire electrical system, including voltage regulator, alternator, and ignition—the car was as good as new and ready to go, and so was I. I waved goodbye to my friends and hit the road once again.
I drove the entire rest of the way to Virginia without stopping and without incident, but I will never forget that night when my "Interstate 40 Angel" guided me safely to food and shelter.
