In the Northern parts of the United States, the roads are quiet. No cities to slow you down, no travelers to share the miles. Cruising at a hundred in a Thunderbird feels effortless when you’re the only one on the highway. Everything was smooth until I reached the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where the sky broke open, and rain came down in sheets. Even with the wipers thrashing, the road blurred into gray. Then, without warning, the highway ended. A detour sign with blinking lights glowed through the storm.
I followed the narrow road for miles until the rain stopped just as I crossed a small bridge. Pulling over, I unfolded the map and realized the road I was on led deeper into the wilderness, not back to the highway. Doubling back would mean missing the ferry to Drummond Island and another night sleeping in the car.
“Okay, Lord,” I shouted into the silence, “what possible good could come out of this?”
The answer came instantly with a loud knocking on the roof and a voice calling, “You love Jesus? I Jesus!”
I turned to see a blond-haired, blue‑eyed boy peering through the back window, another pulling a backpack from beneath the bridge. “What?” I stammered, still in shock.
“I Jesus,” he repeated, pointing to the sticker on my window: HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS.
His name was Jesus, and he and his friend were from France. They’d started in New York, bound for California, but ran out of money and decided to head for Quebec to visit an aunt. They had seen the same Detour sign, and the storm had driven them under the bridge. They were wet and hungry, and feared they would spend the night under the bridge in the wilderness. I told them of my plans to visit family, and they asked to come along. We wouldn’t make the ferry that night, but the first one in the morning would do. They were glad to be with someone who knew where he was going.
As we drove back to the highway, we looked for the Detour sign that had brought us together, but there was none.
We reached the docks nearly an hour late for the last ferry, expecting darkness and sleep. Yet the ferry was still there, delayed by mechanical trouble. My family, who had crossed earlier to shop, were parked just two cars ahead. The French boys fit right in — laughing with my sisters, sharing stories until the next afternoon. When I took them across the bridge to Canada, they thanked me for sharing my family. Then Jesus asked, “Are you an angel?”
“No,” I said, smiling. “I’m not an angel.”
He shook his head gently. “Yes, you are an angel for me.”
Those words stayed with me during the long drive south to Hudsonville; I knew what they had seen was not me or any angel, but God’s love — shining through the detour, the storm, and the narrow road that had led us all to Light.
This story is taken from the book LETTIG GO