It was three weeks ago today, and it’s still so vivid in my mind.

Most of my early morning runs are not very memorable – the familiar pavement, an hour of peace, lots of prayers, maybe a (one earbud) podcast – but the one I set off for on Monday, August 20 at 6:15am left an indelible mark.

It was more like pavement, peace, prayer, and panic this time around.Away from home for a church staff retreat, I knew I needed to get my run in early that morning. Breakfast and planning would begin at 8am that day. I’m new on our church staff (in official capacity anyway) and my focus is Women’s Ministry. It’s something I’ve been doing all along, but with growth in numbers of women in all stages of life, there has been a need for something more organized and intentional.

It was eerily silent on that small northwestern Massachusetts back road, but not uninhabited. New England cape and colonial houses adorned both sides of the street with some acreage allowing privacy in between. The quiet I heard so loudly was the calm of the dawn just before the storm of the world waking up for work and play.

At just about the one mile mark (.89 miles to be exact), the sound of a car increasing in speed just behind me interrupted the silence. I moved a little farther to the left and even onto the grass as I heard it approach. Its windows were down, and I could hear men talking, music playing.

A second or two later it swerved right in front of me, missing me only by a foot or so, and then returned to its proper lane and kept going. Fast and loud.

My first thoughts (accompanied by eye rolling):

Ugh. Guys. Messing with me. How rude.

My next thought, or rather feeling (my heart is racing as I type), was sheer panic.

The car raced up ahead only about 20 yards, abruptly turned right into a driveway (or side street?), backed out onto the same road again, and began speeding toward me head on.

In that moment, I reacted instantly by doing something I’ve told my kids to do in situations where they feel that someone may be following them: I walked down the driveway and toward the side door of the house that was (thankfully) directly to my left, pretending to be home from my run, looking down at my phone the whole time, feigning nonchalance.

As I got halfway down this stranger’s driveway, the car stopped and waited at the end of it. I continued walking closer to the door of the house as if I was about to go inside, and eventually I could hear it drive away. But only about 10 yards away, as I could see its brake lights through the trees and shrubbery.

I continued waiting close to the strange house, wondering what I would do if the owners saw me loitering in their driveway.

The car pulled down the road another 10 yards and stopped again. It still didn’t seem safe to get back on the road.

And maybe here is where I should say that the house I was pretending to live in looked barely inhabitable. It was run down, the yard was unkept, and every window was pressed against from the inside with stacks and piles and stuff. Stuffed to the gills is what I kept thinking. I’ve never seen an episode of Hoarders, but I think these folks may qualify.

Finally, the car took a right turn, and I watched it go as far as I could see down a road I knew to be one that fed into the main downtown thoroughfare, but I was still unsure of what to do next.

As I stood there a bit paralyzed, the owner of the house opened the side door (I was only standing a few feet away), walked out, took one look at me, and probably from out of his own fear and confusion asked me sternly what I was doing there. It was only about 6:25am.

“I’m so sorry! I was out here running and I thought a car was following me and I got scared and I walked down your driveway toward your door to make them think I lived here and…,” I stammered.

At my jittery explanation, he softened immediately, apologized profusely, introduced himself kindly, and generously offered me a ride back to wherever I came from.

He could see that I was pausing, hesitating, weighing my options:

Get back on that road to run and risk encountering those men again or take a ride in a truck with a complete stranger? A hoarder no less?

But a 50+ year old, round, polite, generous, harmless hoarder it seemed? He was probably fairly strong (he was dressed in blue collar style work clothes), but I thought I could potentially outrun him if need be.

His truck was parked even further back on his property and in what seemed like very high grass. Sigh…

After much more hesitation on my part and many more efforts at accommodation on his part, I agreed to let him drive his truck up to the road and pick me up there. When I got in and shut the door, I saw his breakfast sitting on the dashboard: a freshly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich on top of a paper towel. Somehow, it relieved the fears I had about riding with him .89 miles back down the road.

In the 3-5 minutes we were together, he apologized again for the fear I had experienced and asked me if I remembered any details about the car – make? color? license plate? I don’t know if it was because of shock or because of my own obliviousness to anything car-related, but I didn’t have answers to any of those basic questions.

A long-time resident of that tiny little town, he knew exactly were I was staying and delivered me right to the door of my dormitory. He even waited in the driveway until I was safely inside.

It was a indeed a rescue from a battle, but I didn’t realize it fully until I continued my run a little closer to my housing that morning.

A spiritual battle, I think.

(With a side of practical tips and take-aways.)

A real AND representative rescue, I’m convinced.

(With reminders of who the true Rescuer is.)

To be continued…