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When Yahweh Became my Protector

There are moments in life that only make sense when you look back at them. At the time, they feel strange, almost interruptive—like heaven tapping on your shoulder while you are too distracted to understand why.

A day before it happened, something felt unusual.

I had experienced that in-between place before—that mysterious space between being asleep and fully awake—but never like this. My body lay resting, yet my spirit seemed fully alive. Deep within me, prayers were rising uninvited, cries for God’s protection pouring out from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. My soul longed for Him with an urgency I couldn’t explain. It was not polished prayer. It was desperate prayer. The kind that comes from a spirit that senses something before the mind catches up.

When I finally opened my eyes completely, the atmosphere had not lifted. It followed me into wakefulness. I continued praying as though I had simply changed rooms, not states of consciousness.

Thursday itself carried a strange weight.

Restlessness followed me like a shadow. I felt an overwhelming need to pray, though I could not explain why. I walked downstairs toward the ACT prayer room at work, hoping to pour out whatever burden I was carrying. But when I arrived, one of the elders from church was already inside using it.

I stood there for a few seconds—perhaps two, perhaps longer—caught between decisions. Do I go back to the office? Do I wait? Do I force myself into routine?

Instead, I found my feet carrying me toward church.

Yet even there, my restlessness remained. Ironically, the one thing I wanted most—to pray—felt impossible. I tried lying down across the chairs. Nothing. I sat upright. Nothing. I paced as I prayed. Still nothing. It felt as though my body and mind refused cooperation while my spirit kept insisting, Pray.

So I prayed any way I could.

I prayed in tongues. I prayed with words. I prayed for names that crossed my mind. I prayed for people who had asked me for prayer and even those who had not. I prayed for strangers I might never meet. I prayed for anyone and everyone.

My body was tired.

My soul was tired.

But my spirit remained stubbornly awake.

Days before this, I had agreed to minister in Huye, about three hours from Kigali. Yet as the week approached, an uneasiness settled over me. Not fear exactly. Just... resistance. I nearly called and cancelled. Something in me wanted out.

But I kept telling myself, I gave my word. As long as the Lord keeps the door open, I will go.

Then Friday came.

The same strange burden returned.

The same stirring.

The same restless urgency.

Still, I did what needed to be done. I got into the car and we began the journey.

About thirty minutes from our destination, everything changed.

Music played softly through the speakers. We were having one of those conversations that feel enjoyable in the moment but vanish from memory later. I honestly cannot remember what we were talking about.

Then, in less than a second, time shattered.

A motorcycle rider suddenly crossed the road and moved toward my side of the vehicle. The driver reacted instantly, steering away to avoid him. But impact came anyway.

Once.

Then twice.

Everything happened at once.

Another car approached from the opposite direction, heading straight toward us. Ahead was a man riding a bicycle overloaded with two enormous sacks of cassava. Fear overtook him and he fell, the sacks crashing down onto his torso. The motorcycle rider collapsed into the middle of the road.

And somehow—only by God’s mercy and the quick reflexes of a skilled driver—the car swerved and slid onto the roadside without flipping.

Silence.

The kind of silence that arrives after chaos.

The kind where your ears still hear echoes of danger.

Eventually, after everything settled, I climbed into the back of a truck that would continue toward Huye. For the first time all day, I felt rest.

Then I picked up my bag and started walking.

For fifteen minutes, I walked with a friend beside me. Yet somehow I felt completely alone inside my own thoughts. My feet moved forward, but my mind stayed behind at the accident scene.

Replaying.

Remembering.

Wondering.

And somewhere along that road, I began realizing something:

Perhaps all those restless prayers had not been random after all.

Perhaps heaven had been preparing me before I even knew I needed preparing.

Because sometimes God teaches us things not through answers—but through interruptions.

And sometimes protection begins long before danger arrives.