This is a story that happened a few years back right around this time of year. I would say this is the very closest I’ve ever come to facing my dying moment – and killing poor Ray in the process. Thank God for a little Divine intervention when we both really needed it. I have pulled trailers since this happened, but I promise I now go a whole lot slower.

A few years back, my husband Ray and I were driving from California to Texas, and I was towing a 1958 Buick on a trailer behind our 15-passenger Ford van. This was Ray’s idea of love at first sight—that ’58 Buick—a car from his birth year he hoped to restore just for fun. We’d picked it up in Arizona and were speeding across West Texas, racing to get to a reunion in my hometown, still six hours away. It was mid-afternoon, and we’d just filled up in one of the small towns that dot Highway 287 east of Amarillo.

I’ve pulled plenty of trailers over the years, so this wasn’t new to me. In fact, I was comfortable behind the wheel and cruising at 80 miles an hour once we were back on the open highway.

All was well until I decided to pass an 18-wheeler in the slow lane. I noticed a slight curve ahead but didn’t think much of it—until I was mid-pass and felt a vacuum-like draft pulling us toward the truck. As the road straightened again, I felt the trailer begin to sway behind us. Not good. That trailer, with the heavy Buick strapped on top, was no small matter. I knew I had to take control fast.

Then a flash of faulty memory: This is like black ice. Turn into the pull, and you’ll be fine.

“Straighten the wheel and speed up!” my husband yelled.

“Leave me alone—I’m handling this,” I snapped.

And just like that, ten thousand pounds of metal began to careen down the interstate. Speeding up, braking, steering—none of it made any difference. I had lost control. As the trailer pushed the van into one ditch, then across the highway into the other, I had one sickening thought: I’m going to kill us. Not just Ray and me, but whoever happens to be in our path. Time slowed. The possibility of my own death seemed less tragic than the fact that I might be the cause of others’.

The van crossed the highway again, then veered back across. We were headed straight for a tall red clay embankment. I braced for impact. This was it. Ray and I locked eyes. His expression—calm, accepting—stayed with me.

We hit the embankment at high speed, the van pointed nearly straight up at a forty-five-degree angle. Then we stopped. Gas was pouring out of the engine, but we were still alive. Ray shouted, “Get out of the car!” We both shoved our doors open—which wasn’t easy given our elevated angle—and jumped the six feet to the ground.

The trailer had jack-knifed, which stopped us from hitting the embankment full-force. That twist of fate saved our lives.

I stood on the side of the road in shock. Several cars had pulled over, drivers who had seen our erratic swerving in their rearview mirrors. The driver of the 18-wheeler we’d passed parked and ran toward us. He gathered me in his arms.

“I thought I was about to watch you die,” he said, tears streaking his face. “I’m so happy you’re alive.”

I was touched, relieved, and grateful. And I knew I’d just been handed a dose of pure grace. I’d made the wrong call—maybe several wrong calls—and I was still alive. We both were.

That accident changed me. First, I gained a whole new respect for towing trailers. I no longer confuse familiarity with invincibility. I drive more slowly now, more carefully, with less fear and more confidence. That’s good for everyone—inside the car and out.

Second, I trust my husband more. Not just because he was right about how to steer out of a wobble. More because he forgave me even before we knew our fate. I saw that forgiveness in his face. That kind of grace is rare, and it remains one of the clearest gifts of love I’ve ever received.

And third, I know now, in a deeper way, that life is fragile and precious. There’s no time to dawdle when death might be waiting around the next corner.

As for that ’58 Buick… Ray sold it. Maybe it reminded him too much of our near-death experience. Or maybe he was afraid I’d offer to tow it again. Whatever the reason, I suspect deep down he decided it wasn’t wise to tempt fate.

I can’t say I blame him.