It was a routine traffic stop—the kind they warn you about in training. I was on my first ride-along with one of our sheriff ’s deputies on a patrol shortly after becoming pastor of our church in Yuma, Arizona, as a volunteer chaplain. I noticed the deputy I was riding with had, clipped to his visor, a prayer card with an image of St. Michael the Archangel on it. That opened the door for me to ask him about his belief in God. A few minutes later, God ripped the door off its hinges.
We were driving along a two-lane strip of Interstate 8 heading east and noticed an old Volkswagen Beetle (like from he 1970s) with a surfboard strapped to the roof, but no license plate. The deputy flipped on the red and blue lights that led the VW’s driver to pull over to the shoulder on the highway. With our patrol car about 20 feet behind them, we got out and started to approach the other car.
Apparently, seeing someone pulled over on the side of a road by law enforcement causes instant panic in speeding drivers and we heard the squeal of brakes followed by a loud thud as a motorcycle rebounded of a car that had swerved into his lane to avoid the sudden stop of the cars in front of him. Our heads snapped toward the sound, and we saw a black Honda Shadow motorcycle arcing through the air about 15 feet high from the left lane to the right shoulder in front of us, dropping its rider from the high point of the arc in a sickening plop like a sack of potting soil.
We ran to the fallen rider while both lanes of eastbound traffic were stopped. As the deputy checked the rider for breathing and a pulse, we saw he was unresponsive. Taps on his chest didn’t rouse him; he was not breathing; and he had no pulse. The deputy began calling in a vehicle accident with a fatality. My Navy training from years ago kicked in and I was about to start CPR, when I felt an overwhelming urge to just touch his chest and pray. After mentally arguing with myself for a few seconds, I disregarded my training and placed my hand on his chest, while I prayed. Nothing eloquent, I just asked Jesus to heal this man, and then became a silent spiritual connection between this lifeless man and his maker. I imagined my role later as being like a wire, connecting the God’s life-giving power to this body who so desperately needed it.
As other drivers started to come to the scene, the deputy As other drivers started to come to the scene, the deputy and I heard a gurgle. A few more gurgles followed, and then some moans. I had not done anything helpful according to my medical training and the other drivers noticed that and started moving me out of their way as they spoke to the rider and prevented him from moving as he was now trying to sit up. I stood up and kept my arm pointed toward the rider, embarrassed at not doing any kind of first-aid that my training had instilled in me, while at the same time being amazed at what God had just done to this formerly lifeless man who was now clearly alive and literally kicking as he continued his efforts to sit up.
The ambulance arrived and the EMTs loaded Jerry onto a gurney to take him to our regional medical center. As they did so, I called one of my brothers from the Christian Motorcyclist Association who lived near the hospital to let him know a fallen brother was coming to the Emergency Room in a few minutes. He and a few others from CMA met Jerry at the ER and prayed with him. I visited Jerry after our shift ended and found he had broken his collarbone in the crash and suffered some internal bruising—incredibly minor injuries compared to his original condition at the scene.
Jerry was soon up and riding again. His Honda Shadow was repaired, and he joined the Christian Motorcyclist Association chapter here in Yuma that had prayed with him at the hospital. He told me some years later that he prayed for me every day and carried a copy of the police report with him all the time, sharing his story with everyone who would listen.
Part of me wishes I could say I did something to cause Jerry’s healing—some wonderfully articulate prayer that brought forth a miracle. But I can’t. The humble truth is I was just there at the moment God planned to use me, guiding me not to follow my instincts but to trust his guidance instead—to be willing to look like a fool for Christ.
And miracles reinvigorate our souls, giving us the ability to share that hope with others.
Jerry lived another 12 years, loving the Lord, riding motorcycles, and sharing the Good News of what Jesus had done for him with anyone who would listen. He died of cancer a couple years ago, but I know we’ll see each other again, and I won’t be surprised if he’s riding a motorcycle.
I waited a long time to write about this because I didn’t want to seem like I’m claiming to have done something of my own—to have healed someone. Jesus did it; I just happened to be the tool in his hand. Our current culture, however, has made me realize that the ungodly forces in this world grow stronger as our hope in God diminishes.
In the past 100 years, more Christians have been martyred for their faith in Jesus than in all the other centuries combined. Martyrdom is not yet prevalent in the United States, but hostility, violence and arrest are. Those sorts of things can make us lose hope. We need reminders that our all-powerful creator loves us and is in control. We need hope. And miracles reinvigorate our souls, giving us the ability to share that hope with others. Jerry spent the last 12 years of his life talking about his miracle, how Jesus brought him back from the dead. He would want me to share it also.
The Holy Spirit has given you every spiritual gift, tool and talent that you need in order to be able to do whatever he leads you to today. Trust him and be willing.