The Wingprint

It was around three in the morning when the mountain started pulling our Escalade over the edge.

Danielle was praying in the passenger seat.

Madison and Charlotte were behind us.

The back of our blacked-out Escalade was packed with gear, guns, and everything we thought we needed for the mission waiting for us in Virginia.

We were coming down an icy mountain at a speed I would never recommend and will not attempt to defend.

Then the tires found a channel of slush.

The steering wheel was still in my hands, but control had already left the vehicle.

I felt the weight of the Escalade shift toward the driver's side. The wheels were pointed one direction. The momentum was taking us somewhere else.

Over the edge.

At around 75 miles per hour, from that height, in the middle of nowhere, I knew what waited below us.

The chance of survival felt close to zero.

Time slowed down until every second felt like it had been stretched open.

Danielle had been praying moments earlier in the only way a God-fearing woman can pray when her husband is white-knuckling a family through an ice storm.

She says the words that came to her were:

Jesus, take the wheel.

The command that hit me was different:

Gun it.

Every natural instinct said slow down.

Something in me said accelerate.

So I pushed the pedal to the floor.

And then I closed my eyes.

Built for the Night

In April 2018, Danielle and I loaded Madison, Charlotte, and what felt like half an armory into an Escalade and headed toward Virginia.

We were going to meet with a group of Kingdom Mentors. Among them was a Navy SEAL who had spent nearly 20 years as a hard-core operator.

He would become one of the most trusted and influential men in my life. I still think about him, the direction in which he pointed me, and the things God used him to prepare me for.

You will hear more about that militant warrior when I tell the story of The Cave.

For now, picture a blacked-out Escalade flying down the highway on a mission.

It did not take long after having children for Danielle and me to understand why my parents always drove through the night.

When I was young, I assumed Mom and Dad simply liked making life difficult.

Then I had children.

The strategy suddenly made perfect sense.

Leave around four in the afternoon.

Drive for four hours.

Stop for dinner.

Change diapers.

Complete whatever bedtime routine can be completed in a gas-station parking lot.

Put everyone back in the vehicle around nine.

Then move.

The children sleep. The copilot sleeps. The driver zones in. There are fewer pee breaks, shorter stops, and no debates about how much longer the drive will take.

Gas and go.

Move fast and stack as many miles as possible before the sun appears.

Many mornings Danielle and the girls would wake up and discover that sometime during the night we had crossed half the country. We would already be back in Wyoming, Texas, Arkansas, or wherever we were headed.

Depending on the cargo, we often chose to drive instead of fly.

It worked.

Or at least it worked until it almost did not.

The Inherited Need to Get There

One of my favorite childhood memories is a trip my parents took us on when I was around sixth grade.

We drove from good old Glenrock, Wyoming, to visit friends and family in Pennsylvania.

The trip was more than 1,500 miles and should have required a solid day of driving.

I say “should have” because when Dad had a destination in mind, he did not drive slowly.

That must be genetic.

I remember coming through the long, flat, mind-numbing state of Nebraska. We were pulled over, although somehow Dad was let go.

What stands out most is not the flashing lights. It is the fact that I believe I had been sleeping on the floorboard of the F-350 dually while my brother was stretched across the bench seat.

Different time.

Different understanding of consequences.

Today, that setup would probably earn somebody a life sentence for child endangerment—or at least a viral video and a thousand angry comments from people who have never crossed Nebraska.

We made that trip in something close to a land-speed record.

On the return drive, we slowed down enough to stop at a few places and see more than the next fuel station. That is another story for another Field Note.

But the lesson had already settled into me:

When you have a target, go.

Do not waste time.

Do not stop unless you have to.

Get there.

Years later, with my own wife and children in the vehicle, that inherited urgency was still riding with me.

So was the confidence that came from growing up on Wyoming roads.

I had driven through wind, ice, whiteouts, and cold that did not feel survivable.

In Wyoming, 30 degrees below zero is not a dramatic metaphor. Add a 50-mile-per-hour wind and the cold can cut through every layer you own. Snow can fall so thick that you cannot see the next delineator post—the reflector markers lining the road.

In some places, those posts are stacked two or three times taller than normal because the snow gets deep enough to bury everything else.

That was my reference point.

I thought I knew bad weather.

I had enough experience to be dangerous.

I also had enough confidence to believe danger would always blink first.

Headed Toward Dangerous

The training in Virginia was designed for scenarios that did not call for subtlety.

We were going to learn how to protect our family during an active-shooter situation. We would practice clearing rooms, moving through structures, responding under pressure, and functioning in circumstances most people only see in movies.

We were about to live through them.

Being from Wyoming, growing up around guns, and doing enough stupid stuff to create several lifetimes of stories, I was familiar with firearms.

Familiar does not mean fully trained.

But it can make a man confident enough to think it does.

Danielle was entering the training with more of a blank canvas.

When we first met, she kept a handgun by her bed. The gun itself was fine. Danielle could handle that Walther just fine too.

There was only one small problem.

It contained the wrong ammunition.

At that point, the gun was basically a complicated rock.

That was not her fault. She had not been raised around firearms the way I had. She was already a mile ahead of most people simply by taking responsibility for her protection.

Still, freedom seeds tend to work better when they are the correct caliber.

That is another story for another day.

We were headed toward Virginia with full gear and open minds. We wanted to expand our skills, push our limits, and build knowledge that would become part of the foundation of how we protected our family.

In earlier Field Notes, I have said that some of the biggest attacks seem to arrive just before the biggest breakthroughs.

That is how this night felt to me.

I cannot prove that Satan ordered a particular weather system and sent it across our route. Not every storm is a demon, and not every consequence is an attack.

But I do know there are moments when resistance seems determined to keep you from reaching the place where God intends to train, form, or position you.

This felt like one of those moments.

What should have been an easy overnight drive became approximately 15 hours of white-knuckle work through a whiteout and an ice storm.

The kids slept.

Danielle prayed.

I kept moving.

Easy work had become dangerous work.

And somewhere on that mountain, dangerous work became a fight for our lives.

Gun It

I do not remember the exact road or mountain where it happened.

I remember the descent.

I remember the dark.

I remember the snow moving through the headlights.

I remember the tires finding the channel of slush, snow, and ice.

And I remember the Escalade being pulled toward the drop.

There are moments when people say their lives flashed before their eyes.

Mine did not arrive as one clean movie.

It came as fragments.

Danielle beside me.

Madison and Charlotte behind us.

The family God had given me.

The future that was supposed to be waiting for us.

And one unbearable question:

Was this really how our family line was going to end?

Old driving advice started firing through my head.

My dad and grandpa used to say:

“Don't look back. That's where the wreck is.”

I remembered the counterintuitive truth that sometimes, when a vehicle begins to slide, slowing down the wrong way can make things worse. Sometimes power can straighten what momentum is pulling sideways.

I even heard the lesson from my son Titus's favorite movie, Cars:

To turn right, sometimes you have to steer left.

None of it sounded logical while a Cadillac full of my family was headed toward a cliff.

Then came the command:

Gun it.

When you are already flying off the side of a mountain, the last thing your flesh wants to do is go faster.

But I did.

I floored it.

Then I closed my eyes and made peace with what I believed was about to happen.

Was the enemy really about to take us out?

Was this the end?

Had all my confidence, experience, speed, and preparation brought the people I loved most to a place none of us could survive?

If this were a movie, this would be the moment when all sound disappeared.

Then came a snap.

Or a bang.

Loud as hell.

Loud enough to restart time.

My eyes opened.

Everything returned to normal speed.

And the Escalade was back on the road.

Not halfway.

Not spinning.

Not hanging over the edge.

Back in the lane as if the direction death was taking us had been rejected.

All four of us sat there with wide eyes.

Nobody spoke.

My heart was beating through the seat belt. With every beat, it felt as though it was reaching forward and touching the steering wheel.

We were alive.

We were moving.

And I had no natural explanation for how the vehicle had returned to the road.

One More Shot

We made it to the bottom of the mountain pass.

Then a semi nearly pushed us into the snowy ditch or median.

At that point, it felt as though the enemy was pulling out every remaining stop.

We got around the truck and finally reached the conclusion wisdom had been offering for hours:

It was time to stop.

We found a gas station as the first light of morning began to appear.

We needed fuel.

We needed to recenter.

The girls needed clean diapers.

And I needed to check my pants because Dad might have been the one who should have been wearing a diaper.

Once everyone was cared for, I did what I usually do on a long trip. I walked around the vehicle checking tires, panels, glass, and anything else that might reveal a problem.

After the sound I had heard, I expected damage.

I felt prompted to step back.

So I did.

There was not a single obvious scratch.

No crushed panel.

No broken glass.

No visible evidence that a massive SUV had just been pulled toward a mountain drop and somehow forced back into its lane.

The Escalade was filthy from the storm, but it was intact.

So were we.

We finished fueling and completed the drive.

I thought the miracle was over.

The sun had not yet shown us the signature.

The Wingprint

We pulled into the driveway a short time later.

By then, the sun was fully up and shining hard against the Escalade.

We got out.

I took one step back.

Then another.

I had to look again and again because my mind could not immediately accept what my eyes were seeing.

Running down the entire driver's side of the Escalade was the shape of an enormous wing.

It looked as if one big-ass protective angel had pressed a wing against the vehicle and shoved our entire family back onto the road.

The pattern glittered in the morning sun.

Every line seemed visible.

It was more precise and more beautiful than anything I could imagine an artist placing there intentionally.

I cannot hand you a laboratory report explaining what was on the vehicle.

I cannot make anyone else interpret the pattern the way Danielle and I did.

I can only tell you what I remember seeing, what had happened hours earlier, and what the sight meant to us.

I believe God intervened.

I believe He sent an angel to protect our family.

I believe we came within a split second and a few inches of being taken out, and Heaven said:

Not yet.

Psalm 91 says that God commands His angels concerning His people, guarding them in their ways.

That morning, those words did not feel poetic.

They felt parked in the driveway.

They glittered down the driver's side of a black Escalade.

Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof

I was only 30 years old.

As if I needed more confidence, the experience made me feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.

I had already lived with an all-in personality. I took risks, moved fast, and often believed the size of my faith could overpower the size of the danger.

Now I had a story that seemed to prove it.

The soundtrack in my mind was Andy Mineo:

You can't stop me.

Romans 8:31 gave the feeling biblical language:

“If God is for us, who can be against us?”

I walked away believing:

No one can beat me.

Not people.

Not circumstances.

Not even Satan.

The only One I fear is God, and He is on my side.

That confidence contained truth.

It also contained immaturity.

God is for His people.

No enemy can overturn His ultimate purpose.

No power can separate us from the love of Christ.

No opposition gets the final word over what God has ordained.

But Romans 8 does not say Christians will never be injured.

It does not say faithful people never die.

It does not promise that every icy road will end with the vehicle back in its lane.

It does not turn dangerous driving into an act of faith.

God's protection is not permission to become more careless.

Mercy is not a dare to see whether He will do it again.

At 30, I thought the miracle meant I was bulletproof.

Looking back, I know it meant our assignment was not finished.

Preserved on Purpose

The greatest miracle was not that I could not be stopped.

It was that God chose to preserve what was inside that vehicle.

Danielle was there.

Madison was there.

Charlotte was there.

Two of our arrows were strapped into the back seat.

The rest of the quiver had not arrived yet.

Think about everything that would have ended on that mountain.

Children who had not been born.

Books that had not been written.

Businesses that had not been built.

People we had not met.

Prayers we had not prayed.

Failures that had not yet humbled me.

Healings we had not yet experienced.

Assignments we had not yet accepted.

The Cave still waited in our future.

So did the valley.

So did restoration.

So did every story that could only be told because we lived long enough to reach the other side of it.

God did not protect me so I could keep proving how fearless I was.

He protected us because our lives belonged to Him and the Author had not finished the chapter.

Preservation is not permission.

It is responsibility.

If God preserves your marriage, you have a responsibility to steward it.

If He restores your health, you have a responsibility to care for it.

If He rescues your business, influence, sobriety, mind, or family, you do not walk away with a trophy for being invincible.

You walk away with an assignment.

The wingprint was not evidence of my greatness.

It was evidence of His mercy.

Angels Point Beyond Themselves

I am fascinated by angels.

I have stories of protection, provision, warnings, impossible timing, strangers appearing at the exact moment they were needed, and outcomes I still cannot explain naturally.

Those stories will become Angel Operations.

But angels are not the hero of that book.

I am certainly not the hero.

God is.

Angels operate under His authority.

They carry His assignments.

They protect when He commands.

They intervene according to purposes we do not always see or understand.

The point of an angelic encounter is not to make us obsessed with the messenger.

It is to make us more aware of the One who sent the messenger.

The wingprint did not say, “Look how important Waldon is.”

It said:

Look how merciful God is.

It did not promise that our family would never face another dangerous moment.

We have.

It did not mean attacks would stop.

They did not.

It meant fear did not get to rewrite the assignment.

The God who authored our lives still held the pen.

You Cannot Stop What God Has Ordained

Acts 5:39 carries a warning:

“If it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men; you will only find yourselves fighting against God.”

The mature confession is not:

You can't stop me.

It is:

You cannot stop what God has ordained.

That distinction matters.

“You can't stop me” can become ego.

“You cannot stop what God has ordained” is surrender.

The first makes me the main character.

The second reminds me that I am part of a story God is writing.

The first can excuse reckless speed, careless decisions, and confidence in my own instincts.

The second requires me to listen, obey, and steward what He places in my hands.

Feeling dangerous does not mean believing you are indestructible.

It means refusing to let fear make your decisions when God has given direction.

Sometimes the next faithful thing is to accelerate.

Sometimes it is to slow down.

Sometimes it is to stop at the gas station and admit you should have stopped miles earlier.

The goal is not motion.

The goal is obedience.

The dangerous life is not testing how many times God will rescue you.

It is using the life He rescued to complete what He assigned.

Maybe you do not have an angel wing glittering down the side of an Escalade.

Maybe your evidence looks different.

You survived the addiction.

Your marriage made it through the year that should have ended it.

The diagnosis did not get the final word.

The depression told you there was no future, and you are still here.

The business failed, but the gift survived.

The door closed, but the calling did not.

Something in your life has been preserved.

Do not waste your time trying to prove that you are bulletproof.

Ask why you are still here.

Ask what responsibility came with the mercy.

Ask what God protected that now needs to be stewarded.

Then do the next faithful thing before fear leaves.

Tell the truth.

Receive the mercy.

Accept the responsibility.

Move when God says move.

Stop when wisdom says stop.

And never confuse being preserved with being the Preserver.

I used to tell this story as proof that I could not be stopped.

Now I tell it as proof that I had not been released from my assignment.

The wingprint disappeared.

The Escalade was eventually washed.

The glittering outline did not remain on the driver's side forever.

But the responsibility did.

God did not preserve my life so I could keep testing whether He would do it again.

He preserved Danielle, Madison, Charlotte, and me because the story was not finished.

Neither was the assignment.

And if God is for us, no enemy gets the final word.

Scripture to Carry

“If God is for us, who can be against us?” — Romans 8:31

“He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” — Psalm 91:11

“If it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men; you will only find yourselves fighting against God.” — Acts 5:39

“I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted.” — Job 42:2

A Short Prayer

Father, thank You for every moment You protected me when I understood what was happening and when I did not. Forgive me for treating Your mercy like permission to be careless. Replace my bravado with courage, my presumption with obedience, and my fear with trust. Teach me to steward the life, family, influence, and assignment You preserved. Keep my attention on You rather than the sign, and remind me that I am not the hero of this story. You are. In Jesus' name, amen.

Listen

“You Can't Stop Me” — Andy Mineo
Confidence does not come from believing we are personally indestructible. It comes from knowing that opposition cannot overturn what God has ordained.

A Necessary Note

This story is a testimony, not driving advice or a promise that faithful people will always be physically rescued. Traveling at high speed in ice and snow placed my family and others in danger. God's mercy in that moment did not make the decision wise. Obedience never requires us to manufacture unnecessary danger and call it faith.