That Brush with Death

In my last post I mentioned a “brush with death” on our way back from the MAB missionary conference last week. Several people have asked about it, so here–without further ado–is how it went down.
Thirty-nine years is somewhat of a milestone–if for no other reason than that it is the last birthday before forty. My appointment with the big “three nine” was set for October 27th, 2011. I came within inches of missing that appointment by one day.
The trip from Juazeiro to São Luís is roughly 15 hours, one way. When traveling as a family, we usually do it in two days. But since this time it was just myself, a national pastor, and his son–and since the pastor can drive we decided to make the trek in one shot.
For most of the trip the roads were relatively clear. However, as we closed in on São Luís the traffic picked up and there were several areas of construction. I had driven a long stretch between Picos and Teresina. Turning the wheel over to my pastor friend, I put on my headphones and settled back to listen to some Alistair Begg.
Apparently I dozed off. When I opened my eyes again it was dark, and we were weaving our way through a convoy of tractor trailers. Half joking, I mentioned to the pastor that getting home alive was more important than getting home quickly. Then I closed my eyes again.
I’m not sure what made me open them, but when I did, I saw that we were passing another tractor trailer–on a hill. Just as I was about to comment on the possibility of encountering another vehicle cresting the hill, another vehicle crested the hill. By its headlights it was obviously a semi-truck, and it was very close.
“Pastor,” I said, maintaining as much calm as I could “it’s not going to work.”
“Of course it is,” he said, and stepped on the gas.
“Dad!” exclaimed his son from the back seat, a little less calmly, “It’s not going to work!”
And it was at that point that I realized that we were not going to get out of this. There was no place to go to our left. To our right was another tractor trailer. And the truck in front of us was literally yards away, and bearing down fast.
I have often heard that, for people facing death, events seem to move in slow motion. I had never really believed this. I do now. I remember grabbing the handle above the window with both hands, and scrunching up to the door as much as possible. I remember thinking briefly of Itá and the boys. Behind me, I was vaguely aware of the pastor’s son diving for the floor.
In a last-minute desperate move, the pastor swerved to the right. I closed my eyes tightly, expecting to hear the shredding of my car against the truck beside us before the final impact with the truck in front of us.
There was no shredding. By some miracle, the truck beside us swerved right at the same time my pastor friend swerved right, opening up a very small space. Fortunately, the Fiatt Mille is a very small car. Somehow (I still don’t know how) my friend managed to to slide through that space, just as the oncoming tractor trailer blew by us, horns blaring. The truck that was now behind us also flashed his lights and sounded his horn, reflecting what must have been an exhaustive string of Portuguese scatology from inside the cab.
We rode in silence for a few hundred yards, each of us drawing in great quantities of air. Finally, the pastor turned to me.
“I think I’ll let you drive now.”
After a quick bathroom break (and, frankly, I was surprised that this was still necessary) I took the wheel, and a couple hours later we arrived home, safe and sound. And the next day I celebrated my 39th birthday–with a whole new appreciation for life.
As I write this, it dawns on me that this took place as many of our supporting churches in the US were gathering for prayer. If you happened to pray for us during this time…thanks!



That adventure not exciting enough for you? Try the Astonishing Adventures of Missionary Max.