Xerggyo's Dark Ride

Spiritual adrenalin from the worship service ran through Xerggyo's mind. He rehearsed countless meaningful encounters. He anticipated the chance to share this same Good News with people in other parts of the world.

Physically, a different reality loomed ahead in the dark night. As he navigated the familiar mountain highway on his twenty-year-old Honda motobike, the valley's warm mist had now turned to abrasive torrents of rain lashing at any exposed skin. He shuddered as the insidious dampness penetrated every bone in his body.

He twisted the accelerator grip and sped up. He longed to be home, safe and in his bed and out of this deep freeze.

The rain-slicked road did pose a threat, but he knew every twist and turn, every tope (speed bump), like the veins that were coursing rich blood to every muscle of his hands. These were his mountains, Chiapas was his mother state. He loved every amazing thing about it and every inhabitant felt like his amigo.

The high-pitched drone of the labouring four-stroke engine was music to his ears, and he crept the accelerator a touch more up to 100 k. Then, as he veered around another bend, he chilled at the sight in his yellowish headlight. His heart stopped and his blood froze. The heavy rain had caused several large rocks to tumble down onto the highway directly ahead of him. Stopping on the rain-slicked pavement was not a possibility. He twisted safely to the right. His mind raced again to the joy of the time with his Christian brothers and sisters and, in that fleeting second, fear gave way to complete peace. He missed that first rock but could not miss the second and hit it a glancing blow. This sent him and his speeding steed on their side, slithering forward, out of control. It seemed like an eternity until the sound of scraping metal on asphalt stopped. He was confident that he would soon be awake in heaven.

He lay in the icy water and oil and blood until other members of the church rounded the corner and saw their amigo. They helped him to his feet. He regained consciousness. He was able to stand, and even able to walk and speak.

They helped him into a car and took him home. Another van driver put his badly beaten motorcycle aboard.

At home he discovered that he had only a few minor scrapes and bruises. He remembered the peace that flooded over him in those moments and realized that the death of God's children is not really a fearful event. His friends had picked him up within a metre of the sharp cliff at the top of the mountain that stood 2,000 metres above sea level.

How many times does God prove himself, and rescue us for some future assignment, despite our foolish testing?

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