The Heavenly Helpline Chronicles

Oops I did it again… apparently I’m high-maintenance

So, I’ve got one more angelic encounter story for the books. Honestly, I’m think my guardian angels demand hazard pay.

There’ve been countless times when I’m pretty sure heavenly help was involved—moments where things worked out just a little too perfectly. But unlike those subtle nudges from above, this story (like the two before it) involves a full-on, no-doubt-about-it angelic intervention.

At this point, I imagine the leader of the angelic task force sighing deeply, rubbing his temples, and sending out yet another urgent memo: “Right team, she’s wandered into trouble again. Get your wings in gear—this one’s going to need backup.”

I definitely keep them on their toes. Or clouds. Or whatever angels stand on.

Heaven’s 911

This next story takes place deep in the rolling green hills of the KZN Midlands.

I was in my early 30s at the time—still single, still hopeful (mostly), and heading off for a much-needed weekend getaway in the Drakensberg Mountains. My travel buddy? Jane. Also single, newly divorced, and very much in need of mountain air, strong coffee, and possibly divine intervention.

Jane and I had met at church, though technically she was my mom’s hairdresser first—someone I’d adopted after a particularly traumatic home perm situation. We bonded over the usual: heartbreak, horror dates, and how most decent men seemed to have gone extinct somewhere around 1996. Our shared survival of the dating scene in our 30s created a friendship forged in fire… and flat hair days.

For our Drakensberg adventure, we decided to take my car—a shiny (well, sometimes dusty) little Mazda 323 that was still fairly new at the time. What could possibly go wrong, right?

Now, if you’ve read any of my previous stories, you’re probably starting to notice a pattern: me + car trip = angel alert at Heaven’s emergency desk. I’m convinced the minute I put a key in the ignition, there’s a siren going off in the heavenly control room.

“She’s on the road again, folks. Buckle up and grab the holy toolkit—this one’s gonna need us.”

And sure enough, this trip didn’t disappoint.

Angels, Mist, and One Very Unimpressed Cow

It was around 6 p.m. when we veered off the N3 and onto the road to Underberg—a stretch of road that locals will tell you is less of a road and more of a real-life game of Taxi Chicken. It’s narrow, it’s winding, and apparently it comes with a built-in “death wish” mode for minibus drivers doing 120 km/h into oncoming traffic.

As we hit that infamous road, the mist rolled in—thick, cold, and clingy. Autumn in the Midlands does that. One minute you’re driving, the next you’re starring in your own horror movie with a visibility rating of “LOL, good luck”.

Naturally, I eased off the accelerator, dropping to a cautious 70 km/h while Jane and I muttered hopeful prayers that no taxis would try anything dramatic. We had literally just said, “Let’s hope no one does a kamikaze overtake,” when things took a turn. (A literal one.)

I rounded a bend—and there it was.

Out of the swirling mist emerged a massive cow. Not walking. Not crossing. Just standing. Sideways. Right in the middle of our lane like it was contemplating life, chewing its cud, and couldn’t care less about Mazda-shaped problems.

I did what every panicked driver instinctively does: I slammed the brakes. (Mistake number one.) Because, surprise, mist and tar make an excellent slip-and-slide combo.

Everything slowed down like I was suddenly in The Matrix: Midlands Edition. I saw Jane brace for impact. I felt the car start to slide. And I watched in helpless, high-definition horror as we drifted straight into the bovine blockade.

There was no dramatic swerve. No movie-style dodge. Just the cold, slippery truth of physics. We hit the cow.

Straight on.

And then it slowly slid up the hood of my car. In that surreal moment, I actually had a thought:

“I’m about to have a whole lot of fillet on my lap.

Moo-ving Toward Impact

We’d heard the stories. Everyone in the Midlands knows someone—or knows someone who knows someone—who hit an animal with their car and didn’t walk away from it. So as the cow slid up my bonnet in cinematic slow motion, a wave of cold dread hit me harder than the actual impact.

My brain was spiraling. Was this it? Was this the bizarre, mist-covered end of my life story? “She lived, she loved, and then she lost a high-speed showdown with a cow.” It was terrifying.

Miraculously, the cow stopped sliding just short of my windscreen. But then—like a final dramatic move in a bovine ballet—its head and legs flopped over, leaving a massive dent in my roof and side panels. And then, as if following some invisible director’s cue, the cow slowly slid off the car and onto the road with an undignified thud.

All I could see was the front of my once-proud little Mazda now crumpled like a used napkin. We sat there frozen. Time felt weird. It might’ve been five minutes… it was probably more like five seconds. Silence hung thick in the mist.

Eventually, I snapped out of it just long enough to register that my car had come to a full stop—on the wrong side of the road.

Facing oncoming traffic.

Had anyone else been barreling around that corner like the taxis were earlier, we’d have had a full-speed head-on collision with a cow acting as a grotesque bumper.

Then we heard it.

Mooing. Loud. Pained. Drawn-out.

The cow was very much alive—and not at all happy about its impromptu ride on my car. Jane, ever the tender-hearted vegetarian, immediately covered her ears and began whisper-praying on repeat:
“Please, Lord, don’t let the cow die. Please don’t let the cow die. Please, please don’t let the cow die…”

Meanwhile, I stared at the front of my poor, crumpled Mazda—hood folded, bumper gone, headlights blinking in confusion—and I’ll be honest: I wasn’t praying for the cow’s survival. In that moment, after all the damage it had done, I was lowkey hoping for slow internal bleeding. I know that’s terrible, but so was the dent in my roof.

Then Heaven Sent a Land Cruiser

Just as we were about to peel ourselves out of the car, headlights cut through the mist behind us. A large Land Cruiser pulled up—one of those big, rugged ones that look like they’ve driven through battlefields and Sunday braais alike. I assumed it was a group of local farmers. From what I could see, there were two guys in the front and three standing casually on the back like it was a khaki-clad chariot.

They all jumped out in one fluid motion, like some kind of Midlands SWAT team.

The driver and one of the guys came straight to my door, opened it without hesitation, and gently helped me out. Two more did the same for Jane. The last one jogged to the front of the car and crouched near the cow, giving it a once-over like a vet-slash-cow-whisperer.

“Hey,” I heard him call out, “we might need the gun—she’s in bad shape.”

Jane immediately gasped. Her vegetarian heart just about gave out. I, on the other hand, was still in shock and had just about resigned myself to my car being declared a total write-off—possibly by insurance, definitely by God.

Once we’d convinced these rugged, handsome khaki angels that we were physically fine (emotionally? Debatable), one of them suggested we move the car out of the oncoming lane before we added more trauma to the evening.

Two of the guys sprinted in opposite directions to flag down traffic, waving their arms and moving with military precision. Where I’d been stuck in slow motion just moments before, these guys were operating on fast-forward—like bushveld paramedics with a soft spot for damsels and livestock.

I never actually saw a gun, but I was bracing for the worst. Then, just as the mist seemed to swallow the road around us, another shape emerged from the fog.

A second cow.

It walked calmly toward its injured friend, leaned in, and licked her ear.

And just like that, the mooing stopped.

As if on cue, the “injured” cow stood up—possibly out of embarrassment—and the two of them trotted off together into the field, vanishing like ghost cows into the mist. It was surreal. Jane, nearly in tears from relief, waved them off like long-lost friends, beaming with joy.
“No one had to die tonight!” she exclaimed.

Wheels, Winks, and One Last Moo-ving Moment

Now that the cow had miraculously walked off and the Mazda was safely back on the correct side of the road, one of our rugged, khaki-clad angels turned to me and asked, “Do you want to try start your car?”

Honestly, I didn’t think it had it in her. But I climbed in, turned the key… and she started first time. Like nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t just body-slammed half a ton of livestock.

The driver of the Land Cruiser leaned in and said, “We’ll follow you the rest of the way to your resort, just to make sure you’re alright.”

I blinked. “Are you sure? It’s still quite a way to go.”

He just nodded, calm and confident. “We’ll follow.”

And that was that.

So off we went, creeping along at a respectful speed—slow enough to make sure the wheels didn’t fall off, fast enough not to look like a parade float. I was still high on adrenaline and disbelief. Jane, on the other hand, had shifted gears completely.

“Why,” she hissed, “did I not hand one of them my business card? What was I thinking?!”

I mean, fair question. How often do you get rescued by five handsome farmer-types in coordinated khaki?

We reached the driveway of our resort, headlights bouncing gently off the gravel path, the mist still curling around us like a scene out of Outlander (minus the kilts, plus cows). As we pulled in, our guardian farmers gave a final hoot, a cheerful wave…

…and then vanished back into the mist.

Just like that.

No names. No numbers. No Tinder follow-ups. Just a rescue, a goodbye, and a convoy of angels with bakkie boots.

Gone—but never forgotten.

Khaki-Clad Angels and the Road to Safety

As I said at the start of this story, I’ve found myself in more situations than I can count where I know angels were working overtime behind the scenes. But on that misty Midlands road, I truly believe those khaki-clad heroes weren’t just good-hearted local farmers. They were honest-to-heaven angels—sent to pull us out of a potentially deadly encounter and see us safely to the end of our journey.

Their timing. Their calm. Their quiet confidence. It all felt too perfectly placed to be coincidence.

Sometimes, divine intervention shows up in a blinding light. Other times, it arrives in a Land Cruiser, wearing boots and a warm smile.

“For He will order His angels to protect you wherever you go.”
— Psalm 91:11 (NLT)