It’s been at least 25 years, but the memory is still vivid. Back then I was editing a small magazine for a nonprofit ministry called ACTS 29. For one issue, I was covering another local ministry called Blood & Fire, which worked with men who needed a second chance. Their outreach took me to an unusual setting—a funeral home where the men were putting on a revival service for the surrounding community.
Before the service, we walked through the neighborhood to invite people to come. The streets were rough and run-down back then—this was near the corner of what’s now MLK Drive and Joseph Lowery Blvd. I was the only white guy for miles, and I stuck out even more because I was carrying a camera. About 15 minutes in, one of the men quietly pointed out the obvious problem: people might think I was a cop, and trust in the police wasn’t exactly high in that area. I put the camera away, kept my head down, and did my best to blend in while the others extended the invitations.
The service itself was powerful—music, energy, and a message of hope that really connected with the community. But afterward, things took a turn. My Eddie Bauer edition Ford Explorer, only about five years old, refused to start. The Blood & Fire guys tried to help, but eventually they had to head back to their dorm. That’s when a small man on a bicycle rolled up.
“Don’t talk to him,” the others cautioned. But I had nothing to lose. He said he worked at a garage, peeked under the hood, and asked me to turn the key. Nothing. Then he pinched something, told me to try again—and suddenly the engine roared. He wasn’t finished, though. With a pocketknife and a scrap of foam rubber, he carved out a makeshift hose, connected it to the engine, and told me I’d make it home just fine.
I offered him the $20 I had in my wallet. At first he refused, then he accepted. He told me a little about his life—how he grew up in the same town as Herschel Walker. “Funny when you think about us playing football together back then,” he said. “Where he is now, and where I am.”
I looked at him and said, “I didn’t need Herschel Walker today. I needed you.” He smiled, climbed on his bicycle, and rode away. Within moments he was gone, almost as if he’d vanished. I’ve often wondered if he was an angel sent in my moment of need.
That night I felt out of place in every possible way—wrong neighborhood, wrong crowd, broken-down car. But God reminded me that He sees us, He cares for us, and He provides. Even when we’re out of place, we are never outside His care.
Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.
