Hello

It was the spring of 1978. Jimmy Carter was president and I was a sophomore at The Ohio State University, majoring in music. In need of a part-time job, I figured that driving a taxi would be an easy way to earn some money. After all, it was just driving a car—how hard could it be? And so, I applied for a position, got my city license and soon completed my training to become a cab driver.

 

The first couple of weeks went smoothly. I made plenty of short runs around campus and through the neighborhoods just east of it. The job seemed simple and easy—just as I had expected. Most customers were respectful and polite. They went to their destinations without issue and paid their fares without complaint.

​

It was a slow Wednesday, but the sun was shining, making for a beautiful day. I pulled my cab up to a taxi stand on High Street, just south of campus. With three cabs ahead of me, I expected to wait a while for my next fare.

There’s an unspoken etiquette among taxi drivers—the first cab in line gets the next passenger. That’s why I was caught off guard when the right rear passenger door suddenly swung open, and a young black man in a trench coat slid into the backseat. The movement was abrupt, unexpected.

 

I immediately realized this was breaking taxicab protocol. Turning around to face him, I started to explain that he needed to take the cab at the front of the line. But before I could finish my sentence…

 

The man was dressed sharply in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt, though he wore no tie. He had a polished appearance—well-groomed, confident. And he was tall, at least 6'2", his presence filling the backseat of the cab. He wore an overcoat, although it was a beautiful sunny day with temperatures in the 80's. I thought, "Who wears a raincoat on a day like today?"

 

Before I could say a word, he reached into his right pocket of the trench coat and pulled out a large handgun, leveling it directly at my face.

 

For a split second, my mind struggled to process what was happening. It was almost surreal, like something out of a movie. My thoughts raced in a strange, almost detached way:

 

"Wow, that's a real gun he's pointing at me."

 

Then, reality crashed in.

 

"Wait a minute—he's pointing a gun at me!"

 

The barrel of the gun was now within six inches of my nose. My breath caught in my throat as the man uttered a single word—calm, controlled, and unwavering:

 

"Drive."

 

There was no urgency in his voice, no panic. He was cool, deliberate, like a professional or someone who had done this before.

 

I wasn’t about to argue. My survival instincts kicked in. I put the cab in drive and eased away from the taxi stand.

 

Almost immediately, the other cab drivers noticed. The radio crackled to life with irritated chatter:

 

"Hey, why is cab number 33 taking the next fare?"

 

"He's not following protocol!"

 

"Who does he think he is?"

 

Their frustration was obvious, but they had no idea what was happening inside my cab.

 

As I pulled away from the taxi stand, the chatter on the radio only grew more animated. The other cabbies were clearly agitated, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mix of confusion and frustration.

 

"What the hell is 3033 doing?"

 

"That fare wasn’t his!"

 

"Somebody get dispatch on this—he's breaking protocol!"

 

The radio was alive with disapproval, every driver seemingly chiming in at once. They had no clue what was really happening inside my cab. No idea that a gun was inches from my face.

 

I kept my hands steady on the wheel, forcing myself to breathe, to stay calm. The man in the backseat hadn’t said another word, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting.

 

I had no idea where we were going, but one thing was certain—I wasn't in control anymore.

 

I remained calm and steady, my hands firm on the wheel. The full weight of the situation had yet to sink in—I was being held at gunpoint by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

 

A professional.

 

He didn’t panic. He didn’t fumble his words. He simply gave precise, measured instructions in that same cold, controlled voice:

 

"Turn right here."

 

I obeyed.

 

"Now turn left."

 

I followed his direction without hesitation.

 

"Go two blocks, then take another left."

 

There was no explanation, no destination given. Just turn-by-turn directions, keeping me in motion but in the dark.

 

With every turn, I felt the city streets closing in, becoming less familiar. My mind raced through possibilities—was this a robbery? A carjacking? Or something worse?

 

But I didn’t dare ask.

 

I just kept driving.

 

A brilliant idea struck me.

 

I’ll crash the car.

 

The man in the backseat wasn’t wearing a seatbelt—I had noticed that the moment he got in. In my mind, if I could accelerate fast enough and slam into something, I might survive—but he wouldn’t.

 

I slowly started pressing down on the accelerator, my pulse quickening as I calculated the risk. If I could catch him off guard, maybe—just maybe—I could end this before it got worse.

 

Would it work?

 

I didn’t know.

 

But I was willing to try.

 

I had barely accelerated a few miles per hour when he caught on.

 

Before I could react, I felt the cold steel of the gun barrel press against the back of my head.

 

His voice was just as calm, just as cool as before—completely unshaken.

 

"Don't do that. It's not very smart on your part," he said.

 

A chill ran down my spine.

 

He wasn’t just in control—he was always one step ahead.

 

I slowly eased off the gas, my heart pounding. Any hope I had of outmaneuvering him had just vanished.

I was trapped.

 

And now, I had no choice but to do exactly as he said.

 

He continued with his directions, and we zig-zagged all over north Columbus—left, right, straight for several blocks, another right. The pattern was erratic, deliberate. I had no idea where we were heading, but one thing was clear: he was in complete control.

Then, his tone shifted.

 

"Give me your money."

 

I didn’t hesitate. My hands were already shaking as I pulled out my wallet and handed him everything inside—a measly $7.

Not much, but it was all I had.

 

In my nervousness, I fumbled, reaching into my front pocket and pulling out some loose change—nickels, dimes, maybe a quarter or two. Without thinking, I offered it to him.

 

Big mistake.

 

With a look of disgust, he swatted it out of my hand. The coins clattered against the floorboard.

"Don't insult me," he said, his voice still eerily calm, controlled. "I don't need your change."

 

A lump formed in my throat.

 

I suddenly understood—this wasn’t just about money.

 

He wanted something else.

 

The tone of the radio chatter had shifted. The other taxi drivers were no longer just complaining about me breaking protocol. Their frustration had turned to concern.

 

One voice crackled through the speaker.

"I think he's being robbed."

 

I barely had time to process those words before my passenger reacted.

 

Without hesitation, he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a very large knife—its blade catching the dim light of the cab.

 

My breath hitched. He was moving—leaning forward—toward me.

 

For a brief, paralyzing moment, I was certain I was about to be stabbed.

 

But instead of plunging the knife into me, he reached down to the radio, yanked the mic and cable out, and with one swift motion, sliced it in half.

 

The radio went dead.

 

He said nothing.

 

Just sat back, silent, as if nothing had happened.

 

But I knew now, without a doubt—this man was dangerous.

 

And I was completely alone with him.

 

We continued driving, his directions never stopping, his voice as calm and controlled as ever. I still had no clue where he was taking me.

 

After what felt like an eternity, we came upon a small park-like area, nestled between quiet residential streets. It was a pretty place, almost serene—completely at odds with the nightmare I was living through.

 

We had been on the road for more than two hours.

 

And then, something changed.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a police car. It was half-hidden at the end of one of the streets.

 

Then—two streets over—another one.

 

A low hum reached my ears, growing louder. I looked up.

 

A helicopter.

 

Flying low.

 

We were surrounded.

 

They were looking for us.

 

The realization hit me hard, a rush of adrenaline surging through my veins.

 

Then, as if nothing were unusual, he calmly gave his final order.

 

“Stop here.”

 

So I did.

 

I stopped the cab.

 

And held my breath.

 

I barely had a moment to process what was happening before I felt it—the hard jab of the gun barrel against the back of my head.

 

My body went rigid. My breath caught in my throat.

 

This was it.

 

I was about to die.

 

Instinctively, I turned my head slightly, desperate to plead for my life. But before I could get a single word out, his voice cut through the air—calm, firm, chillingly composed.

 

"Turn around. Don’t look at me."

 

I swallowed hard and obeyed, facing forward.

 

He didn’t say why, but I knew.

 

He didn’t want me to see him. Didn’t want me to be able to identify him.

 

But then, in the thick silence, I could almost feel his thoughts shifting—as if he was realizing the same thing I was:

I had already seen his face.

I could identify him.

 

And now, a terrifying new possibility filled my mind.

 

No witnesses.

 

Was he deciding, at that very moment, whether to pull the trigger?

 

I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, waiting for what would happen next—my entire life hanging in the balance.

 

At that moment, I thought of Jesus.

 

Was this really the end of my life?

 

I was only 22 years old. I had my whole life ahead of me—or at least, I had thought I did. But now, it felt like that future was about to be ripped away.

 

No wife. No kids. No home of my own. No dog.

 

I had always imagined those things would come someday, but now… they never would.

 

I thought about my friends and family—what few I had.

 

Would anyone even come to my funeral?

 

The thought made my chest tighten.

 

I whispered a question, not aloud, but in the deepest part of my soul.

"Jesus… is this it? Is this how my life ends?"

 

We sat there in silence, the weight of the gun against my head, the hum of the helicopter still circling above.

 

But something inside me pushed back against the fear, the surrender.

 

"I'm not ready to die yet. I'm not ready to go.

 

**And most certainly—**not like this!"

 

Several minutes passed—though it felt like an hour.

 

The weight of the gun against my head, the silence pressing in around us—it was all suffocating.

I was supposed to be dead by now.

 

And yet, I was still breathing.

 

My thoughts kept circling back to the same unyielding truth—

I wasn’t ready to die.

 

Not today.

 

Not like this.

 

I just didn’t want to die today.

 

It was then that I thought about a great white light.

 

I didn’t actually see it, but somehow, I felt it—as if it were there, just ahead of me.

 

A warmth spread through me, an overwhelming surge of power unlike anything I had ever known.

 

Chills ran up and down my spine.

 

The power was immense—so vast, so unimaginable that it felt as though the entire universe had shifted in that moment.

 

And yet, it wasn’t fearful.

 

It wasn’t threatening.

 

It was controlled.

 

It was as if—someone else was in charge.

 

And no—it wasn’t me.

 

And it most certainly wasn’t my passenger.

 

Something greater was at work.

 

There we were—surrounded by police, a helicopter circling low overhead, its rhythmic thrum vibrating through the air.

 

A gun pressed against the back of my head, the man's finger on the trigger, ready to pull.

 

And yet, in that moment—I was not alone.

 

Jesus heard my plea.

 

I felt His presence, not in words spoken aloud, but within the depths of my mind and soul.

 

A conversation unfolded—not in sound, but in thought.

 

He asked me, "Are you ready?"

 

I didn’t hesitate.

 

"No, Lord. I'm not ready. I want to live my life."

 

He nodded, as if He understood completely.

 

And then, with a certainty that filled me to my core, He answered:

 

"Very well then. It isn’t your time yet."

 

That was it.

 

No more was said or thought.

 

Just a divine assurance that my life wasn’t over.

 

Not yet.

 

The passenger paused, as if lost in thought, yet the barrel of the gun remained firmly pressed against the back of my head.

 

Three minutes passed.

 

It felt like three hours.

 

I could hear the pounding of my own heartbeat, feel the sweat forming at the back of my neck.

 

And then, something else—a realization, a terrible certainty.

 

If he pulled the trigger, it was going to be real, undeniable pain.

 

Would I feel it?

 

Would it be like a flash of agony before nothingness?

 

Or would it be something worse—a drawn-out, agonizing pain, like a severed limb?

 

How long would I feel it?

 

A second?

 

Five seconds?

 

Would I even have time to scream?

 

The thoughts came fast, relentless, unstoppable.

 

And yet—I was still breathing.

 

Still alive.

 

For now.

 

And then, without warning, without a single word, he pulled the gun back and slid it into his pocket.

 

Just like that.

 

I barely had time to process what was happening before he opened the door and stepped out—the same way he had entered.

 

No rush. No hesitation. No sign of fear.

 

He simply walked away, slipping between the houses, his figure fading into the shadows of the neighborhood.

 

I lost sight of him.

 

And he did not return.

 

For a few seconds, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, my hands trembling, my body frozen in place.

 

And then, it hit me.

 

I was free.

 

I was alive.

 

I needed to get away—to put distance between myself and the nightmare that had just unfolded.

I threw the car into drive and started to move.

 

Suddenly, flashing lights filled my mirrors. Several police cars came racing down the streets, cutting off my path.

 

Before I could react, their doors flew open, and officers poured out, guns drawn.

 

"STOP! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

 

I froze.

 

I had just escaped death, and now I was staring down the barrels of multiple police guns.

 

I complied immediately—moving slowly, deliberately, every motion exaggerated to show I wasn’t a threat.

 

I stepped out of the car.

 

"HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES!"

 

Again, I obeyed.

 

That’s when it hit me.

 

They hadn’t seen him.

 

They had no idea there was a gunman, no clue that I had just been a hostage, not a suspect.

 

Before I could say anything, an officer rushed forward, patted me down quickly, and slapped handcuffs around my wrists.

 

My heart sank—until another officer suddenly shouted:

 

"LET HIM GO! HE’S THE VICTIM HERE!"

 

The tension broke, and so did I.

 

I was safe.

 

I was alive.

 

But I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel normal again.

 

I remember almost snickering to myself—not out of joy, not out of relief, but because the whole thing felt too stereotypical to be real.

 

Maybe it was a movie playing in my head, a scene unfolding from some crime thriller.

 

But no.

 

It wasn’t a movie. It wasn't fiction.

 

It was real.

 

I had lived it.

 

And yet, as I knelt there, heart still hammering in my chest, I chuckled—a strange, involuntary reaction, as if my brain couldn’t fully process what had just happened.

 

This was funny, in the most twisted, impossible way—because it had happened to me.

I was in total shock, my mind refusing to accept the sheer insanity of the last two hours.

 

For a fleeting moment, I denied it all—tried to convince myself it hadn’t actually happened.

 

But it had.

 

It was real.

 

And somehow, despite everything…

 

I was still alive. Of course I was!

 

I went home to my parents' house, still running on adrenaline, still in disbelief of everything that had just happened.

 

I told them what had happened.

 

At first, they didn’t believe me—how could they? It sounded too crazy, too unreal.

 

Then, a knock at the door.

 

A police officer stood outside, sent for a wellness check to ensure I was safe and hadn’t been followed.

He confirmed my entire story.

 

My parents’ faces shifted from skepticism to shock. The reality of what had happened finally hit them—and yet, for me, it still hadn’t sunk in.

 

I was moving on autopilot, still numb, still in some strange dreamlike state, where none of it felt quite real.

 

I decided I needed to do something normal, something good for myself.

So I called my girlfriend.

 

I went over to her house and told her the whole story.

 

She was concerned, of course—worried for me, trying to understand. But what confused her most was my lack of emotion.

 

"Why do you seem so... detached?" she asked.

 

I shook my head.

 

"It just hasn’t sunk in yet."

 

So we sat together, watching TV.

 

And then—three hours later, without warning—

I burst into tears.

 

The shock shattered. The walls crumbled.

 

It was real.

 

It had happened.

 

I was no longer in denial.

 

I was a survivor.

 

I share this story because, in that defining moment, it was Jesus who decided my fate.

 

He gave me a choice—to live or to die—but it was mine to make.

 

Decades have passed since my college days, and only recently did I come to fully understand what had happened that night. It had never truly occurred to me that I was a child of God, that Jesus had claimed me as His own long before I ever realized it.

 

I had unfinished work to do in this life. I still don’t know what that is, but I now know who I belong to.

 

I am a follower of His.

 

And though I did not hear His voice audibly, I spoke to Him that night, and He answered—not in words, but in power, in warmth, in presence.

 

It was His power I felt. His warmth.

 

And in that moment, it was as if He had died on that cross again just for me—to save me, to claim me, to remind me that I was His.

 

I am not worthy.

 

But because of Him, because He allowed me to choose life, I am here today.

 

Alive. Whole. Redeemed.

 

For that reason, I know—without a doubt—that Jesus is in my life.

 

And He will always be the most important part of it.