It was pouring rain last Wednesday afternoon. It was a gray miserable downpour that turned the afternoon sky almost black. I was driving home from work, already in a foul mood because of a stressful meeting. Then I missed my usual turnoff - the cherry on top of this horrible day. My GPS immediately started barking instructions at me, recalculating a route that took me off the main highway and into a residential area I really wasn’t familiar with. I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. So much wasted time, so much wasted gas. The detour forced me down a dead-end street. The houses were very run-down and I started to feel a little nervous being in the area. I pulled into a cul-de-sac to turn around, eager to get back to the main road and forget this detour ever happened. All of a sudden my headlights swept across the sidewalk and illuminated a figure sitting on the curb, completely exposed to the lashing rain. It was a woman, her head buried in her knees, her shoulders shaking violently as the water pooled around her.
My instinct was to mind my own business - I was already nervous, it was late, the neighborhood seemed dangerous, etc. But as I shifted the car into reverse, I had a heavy feeling in my gut that I just couldn’t ignore. I sighed, put the car back in park, and rolled down the passenger window. I called out to her over the sound of the rain, asking if she was okay or if she needed a ride to a shelter. The woman looked up slowly. She had a look of absolute despair on her face. She was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face, eyes red and swollen. She stared at me for a long, silent moment, looking totally shocked, as if she were seeing a ghost. She didn't ask for money. She didn't ask for a ride. She simply wiped the rain from her eyes and asked, with a trembling voice, "What is your name?" I was totally flustered, but I answered, "It's Mark. My name is Mark."
The woman let out a sob that sounded like it came from the depths of her soul and buried her face in her hands again. After a moment, she explained. Five minutes before Mark’s headlights had swept over her, she had reached the end of her rope. She had walked out of her house, sat on the curb in the storm, and prayed a dangerous, desperate prayer. She had told God, "I am done. I can't do this anymore. If you are real, and if you actually see me, you have to send someone to tell me I'm going to be okay right now." She added “maybe his name will be…Mark” (this of course was a joke, she was trying to find humor in a terrible situation). She thought choosing a name would make it something impossible for God to do. I felt a chill run down my spine but it wasn’t because of the cold rain. I realized that my frustration, the missed turn, and the GPS error were not accidents at all. They were coordinates. I ended up sitting in the car with her for an hour, waiting for the rain to let up, talking to her about faith and second chances. I gave her the groceries I had in the backseat. That wrong turn didn't just save her; it saved me. Life is not random. Sometimes, when our plans get messed up, it is actually God steering the car to exactly where we are needed
