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Some stories are too wild to be fiction — and too full of grace to be coincidence.

This is one of them.

It’s a true story from a chapter of my life I’ve never forgotten — a night I found myself alone, lost in the chaos of Tijuana, Mexico in 1986, without a passport, a plan, or anyone to call. What started as a carefree Friday night ended in fear, prayer, and an encounter that still gives me chills.

I believe in angels. Not the kind with harps and halos, but the kind who walk in denim and white shirts, speak peace into panic, and show up right when heaven hears your cry.

This is the story of how I got lost — and how God sent help when I needed it most.

The Missionary and the Miracle

David Livingstone, the great Scottish missionary and explorer, once recounted a chilling moment during his travels through Africa. A local tribal chief had planned to kill him and his companions that night. But mysteriously, the attack never happened. Much later, that same chief confessed to Livingstone that he had indeed come to murder them — but he and his men had seen 39 armed warriors encircling Livingstone’s camp, and out of fear, turned back.

Livingstone was stunned. He had no guards. But when he later shared this story at his home church in Scotland, one of the members stood up and said, “That night, 39 of us were praying for you.”

That story has always moved me — not just because of the divine protection it reveals, but because I too once found myself in danger, and I too was rescued in a way that felt nothing short of miraculous.

My brush with the supernatural happened one wild Friday night in Tijuana, Mexico.

Laundry Room Encounter

It all started one Saturday, shortly after moving into my new apartment. The building had a laundry room, and I figured I’d get a load done like a responsible adult.

I walked in and immediately froze in the doorway. Standing there, bent over a machine in a pair of baggies, was what looked like a walking surf ad—sun-bleached scruffy hair, broad muscly shoulders, and then, when he turned around, the bluest eyes I had ever seen outside of a perfume commercial.

“Hey, how are you!” he said with a big California grin.

We started chatting—about South Africa (my accent gave me away), Durban (he was weirdly excited about the apparently world-famous weed), and life in general.

Before I knew it, we were perched on top of the machines like old friends, folding laundry and swapping life stories. Then he asked, “Have you ever been to TJ?”

I had in fact been to Tijuana with my cousin and some friends one Saturday. It was also a good two hour drive down to the Mexican town on the US/Mexico border.

“NO but have you been at night?”, he asked.

I said I hadn’t and so he said “You must come with me on Friday?”

Uh-Oh

And despite the fact that I had a fiancé back home, I said, “OK.” (Don’t judge me—I was young, curious, and clearly dazzled by surfer charisma.)

I was warned

My cousin, with whom I was staying at the time, was a little horrified and nervous. South Africans were not allowed in Mexico because of the sanctions against South Africa because of apartheid. I convinced him that this guy would look after me.

The night finally arrived!

Friday night finally rolled around, and I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. This was it — my date with surfer-dude! I carefully selected my outfit, which, in hindsight, screamed “young Christian girl from the suburbs trying to look worldly.”

I wore a purple pencil skirt (lovingly sewn by my fiancé’s mother back in South Africa, bless her misguided heart), a white blouse, my best white “Princess Di” pumps — and to top it off, a permed 80s bouffant so voluminous it needed its own seatbelt. Honestly, I looked like I was going to a church tea party in 1985. Which, to be fair, and considering this was 1986, was sort of my fashion inspiration.

My cousin, suspicious and slightly overprotective, declared he’d be present to inspect surfer-dude upon arrival. Probably hoping he could telepathically shame me out of going.

The doorbell rang and my heart did a backflip. I sat on the couch facing away from the door while my cousin opened it. I could only see my cousin’s face — which instantly drained of color, like he’d just seen a ghost, or worse, a tax inspector.

I thought, Wow! He must be as smitten with surfer-dude’s good looks as I am!

Then surfer-dude walked in.

Billy Idol at the Door

Dear Reader, I too turned ghost white.

Gone was the sun-kissed, beach-blond Adonis from the laundry room. In his place stood Billy Idol’s rebellious second cousin — the one who got kicked out of punk band practice for being too extreme.

His once tousled blonde beach hair was now sculpted into a Mohawk so sharp it could slice bread. A giant black lightning bolt was painted across one cheek like a tribal tattoo from the Book of Bad Decisions. His ears sparkled — not from jewelry, but from a full runway of safety pins marching up both sides like tiny metallic centipedes.

He wore a black leather jacket covered in studs and chains (because zippers are for the emotionally stable), skintight leather pants that looked like they’d been applied with oil, and heavy black boots with silver studs that could tenderize a rump roast just by looking at it.

I sat there blinking like someone who’d just opened the door to Narnia and found out it was hosting a biker convention.

My cousin stared at me. With VERY big eyes.

I stared at my cousin. We both silently screamed, Abort mission!

But the words never came.

So I grabbed my handbag, hitched up my mother-in-law-made skirt, and followed Punk Rock Armageddon out the door like this was the most normal Friday night ever.

Driving to Mexico

We climbed into his large red pickup truck — a vehicle so big I needed a small trampoline just to get into it. As we cruised south toward the border, I began to relax. Miraculously, Billy Idol’s persona had disappeared and Surfer-Dude was back. He was charming again, chatty, me trying very hard not to notice that my date looked like he’d crawled out of a Mad Max sequel.

He told me, with the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy, that we’d be meeting up with his friend “Doc,” who, according to him, was an incredible dancer. I imagined some sleek, salsa-swinging, Patrick Swayze-type character. In my mind, I was now the lucky girl about to be flung gracefully between two rhythmically gifted men like the rose between two very funky thorns.

We arrived in Tijuana and, miraculously, found parking close to the border. That in itself should have been a sign from heaven — or perhaps a warning. The gates were flung wide open like Disneyland for college kids—if Disneyland had tequila.

You see, in Mexico, the legal drinking age is 18. Combine that with cheap tequila and no parental supervision, and voilà — welcome to TJ: the official training ground for tomorrow’s hangovers.

We joined the crowd, and I did my best to look worldly and unbothered, despite being wrapped in a homemade skirt and clutching my tiny handbag like it contained nuclear codes. We passed rows of Mexican vendors enthusiastically grilling “sausages” on makeshift grills over little roadside fires.

Now, if you weren’t paying close attention, it all smelled delightfully meaty and vaguely adventurous. But I had been previously warned by fellow South Africans: do not, under any circumstances, eat the sausages. Unless, of course, you’d always dreamed of biting into a well-dressed rodent marinated in motor oil and mystery.

So I smiled politely, kept my nose in the air, and power-walked past the “ratwurst” brigade.

The street soon transformed into what Americans affectionately call The Golden Mile — a stretch of clubs, lights, music, and regret waiting to happen. It was a neon-lit buffet of bad decisions, and we were about to dive right in.

And honestly, at this point, I still thought we were just going out dancing.

We weaved through the crowd like salmon swimming upstream, eventually arriving at a dingy staircase that led to what I assumed was a club. Up the dark stairs we went, and boom — we were on the dance floor.

When he spoke about Doc earlier, I naturally had pictured a chill surfer type with sun-bleached hair and maybe a backwards cap.

Not even close.

Out of the fog machine haze and frantic strobe lighting emerged a towering Black man who looked like a cross between Mr. Clean and a tribal warrior from the future. He was bald, except for a single, determined plait of hair that sprouted from the middle of his forehead and swung with purpose like it had its own personality.

Dancing with Doc!

Doc gave a brief nod — a silent “yo” — and then jerked his head toward the dance floor like a general leading his troops into battle.

Now let me set the stage: the extent of my dance background was performing ABBA routines in a friend’s living room to impress her parents. I was more “Dancing Queen” than “dance floor queen,” but I figured — how hard could this be?

Well.

Turns out, Doc and my Billy Idol lookalike had moves that could only be described as interpretive martial arts. Arms were flailing like spaghetti in a wind tunnel, legs were kicking like caffeinated can-can dancers, and Doc’s head was bobbing up and down so violently that his hair-plait had turned into an actual whip. I swear it whistled when it sliced through the air.

It was chaos. It was wild. It was… apparently mesmerizing.

Before I knew it, the dance floor had cleared around us like we were breakdance royalty. A human circle had formed, and I — Heaven help me — was in the middle of it. People were watching. People were cheering. I was becoming part of the floor show.

And friends, I was not ready to be a floor show.

Unable to take the spotlight (or the fear of being decapitated by Doc’s hair-whip) any longer, I frantically motioned to my date that I needed a bathroom break. I think he got the message — or he thought I was doing interpretive mime. Either way, off I scuttled.

Now, if you’ve never used a club bathroom in Tijuana, count your blessings. This one was… an experience. Imagine a horror movie bathroom, but add graffiti, no toilet paper, and a smell that could singe your eyelashes. I did what I had to do, avoided making eye contact with the mirror (because I think it blinked at me), and returned to the dance floor — mentally prepared to be whipped into oblivion once again.

Except… they were gone.

Vanished. Poof. No Billy Idol. No Doc. No plait.

Alone in the Golden Mile

Just me. Alone. In TJ. In a purple pencil skirt. I began to walk around the club, trying to find them. I wandered and wandered, and after half an hour, fear started to gnaw at the pit of my stomach. I worried they had gone to another club and left me behind. I searched the club for another fifteen minutes before looking for them at other clubs.

Back on the street, I did what every good Christian girl abandoned by her Billy Idol date in Mexico does: I wandered up and down the Golden Mile like a confused tourist who’d taken a wrong turn on the way to Bible study. This infamous stretch was bursting at the seams with clubs, restaurants, and an alarming number of establishments advertising things that I’m pretty sure my mother would need prayer counseling just to read out loud.

I probably got halfway down the Golden Mile before realizing it was getting late. All the establishments were beginning to empty as the teenagers headed back to the American side of the border before midnight.

I became increasingly panicked as I contemplated what I would do without a passport to get back into America. The streets were emptying quickly as the Americans re-entered their own country. A few local Mexican street vendors were leering at me muttering spicy remarks in Spanish that need translating to me blush seeing I was clearly out of my depth in my little purple pencil skirt and white shirt. I wandered around with a completely bewildered look on my face.

I tried to find the first club where we started the evening and where I lost my date and Doc. But by now, every door and doorway to a club looked the same. I tried one, but it wasn’t the right place. I looked around and eventually realized that I wouldn’t find them on this side of the border.

Lost and deserted in TJ

So, without a clue what to do next, I started the walk back to the border post. By now, the streets were completely empty except for a few American stragglers still making their way through the border gates. I stood there, looking at the border post, frozen in terror and utterly unsure of what to do next.

The only thing that came to mind was to pray the only prayer I could think of in my panic – the Lord’s Prayer. So, under my breath, I began, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…….”

As I stood there, once again glued to the floor and silently praying the Lord’s Prayer, a man’s voice behind me said, “Hey, are you OK?” I turned around and saw two young men, possibly in their early twenties, wearing white shirts and blue jeans. Because they were dressed the same, I thought they might have been waiters at a restaurant or bar or something.

I was about to explain that nothing was okay—but instead, I burst into tears. One of the young men stepped forward gently and asked, “Hey, how can we help you?” Through broken sentences, between sniffs and tears, I told them I was South African. I explained that I had come on a date, but he had deserted me. I told them that I been searching for him for hours, and now I had no idea how to get back into the United States because I didn’t have my passport.

One of them looked at me with quiet confidence and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll help you.” There was no hesitation. No judgement. Just calm, steady reassurance from two strangers who seemed to know exactly what to do.

Without fuss, he laid out a simple plan. We would walk together toward the border post. He would go first, I would follow, and his friend would come last. As each of us passed through the gate, we’d say just one word: “States.” He’d say it first, I’d echo it, and then the friend behind me would say it last. It was a code of sorts—something the border control officials recognized as a sign that we were American teenagers returning from a night out.

It was a fragile plan, but in that moment, it felt like grace.

Once again, I found myself placing my trust in the hands of complete strangers. But this time, instead of fear, I felt an unexpected and overwhelming peace. Just knowing someone was willing to help, lifted the weight that had been pressing on my chest all night.

My heart was POUNDING as we approached the turnstiles at the border post. We moved forward exactly as planned. The first guy stepped up and said, “States.” And went through the turnstile. I followed with my own quiet, “States.” Then the friend behind me echoed it. Just like that, without hesitation or question, we were through.

Saved by a wing and a prayer

And before I could fully take in what had happened—I was back on American soil.

I can’t remember what we talked about as we walked back toward the car—maybe the adrenaline was still too high, or maybe I was simply too relieved to care. But there it was: my date’s red pickup truck, parked exactly where we had left it hours earlier.

I pointed it out, and one of the guys asked, “Well, do you want us to take you home?”

I shook my head. “No, I’ll just wait in his truck.”

As much as I appreciated their kindness, I didn’t want to press my luck. I knew Billy Idol hadn’t crossed back through the border yet, so I figured it was safest to wait for him there.

I found the truck unlocked, climbed in, and locked the doors behind me. I sat there for a while before finally lying back on the seat, completely overwrought and exhausted. Before long, I drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I heard the driver’s door open and my date’s voice: “Oh, there you are.”

By then, I was furious. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but he offered some excuse about he and Doc having stayed in that first club the entire time I’d been searching for them in the streets of Mexico. I argued, insisting I had searched that club thoroughly before venturing out.

Despite it all, the ride home was quiet. All I felt was relief that I’d live to tell the story another day.

Here’s the thing about that night—something I only discovered years later. While I was lost, bewildered, and alone, searching for my date and Doc, my mom was at her desk during the day in South Africa when she suddenly felt a strong impression in her spirit that something was wrong. She felt a tightening around her heart and knew she needed to pray for me. She and my dad began to pray fervently in the spirit on my behalf.

I honestly believe those two young men who appeared out of nowhere, when everyone else had vanished, were angels sent to guide me out of a potentially life-threatening situation—just like the 39 angels who protected David Livingstone.

That night showed me just how powerful prayer can be, especially the prayers of a parent. Even though my mom was thousands of miles away, working quietly at her desk, her spirit was deeply connected to mine. Her prayers, filled with love and desperation, crossed oceans and time zones to surround me with protection when I felt utterly lost. It’s a beautiful and humbling reminder that no matter where we are, the prayers of those who love us can be a lifeline, a shield, and a source of hope when we need it most.

I often think back to that night in Mexico—the fear, the loneliness, the panic that clutched at my chest like a vice. But then I remember the peace that followed. It came not from logic or planning, but from something deeper, unseen. It came with two young men who appeared just when hope seemed lost. They didn’t have wings or halos. They didn’t shine or sing. But they knew exactly what to do. And I knew—deep down—that they weren’t just any strangers. They were sent.

Scripture tells us that God commands His angels concerning us, to guard us in all our ways (Psalm 91:11). I believe in that promise. Not just as poetry or metaphor—but as a living, breathing truth. Angels may not always look like the stained-glass images we’ve grown up seeing, but they’re real. They move when we call out to God. They show up when there’s no one else left. They walk beside us, unseen but present, especially when danger closes in and we are at our weakest.

That night, I didn’t just get rescued. I was protected. Covered. Surrounded by grace I could not see, but could absolutely feel. And I believe it was the prayers of my parents—tuned to heaven—that moved God’s hand to send help. When we pray, especially when we pray for our children, we invite heaven to stand guard. We unleash angels to fight battles we can’t even see. And sometimes, they show up in denim and white shirts, speaking peace and guiding us home.