Are we close?” I called out to my dad who was about   20 feet ahead of me. But he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the thunder and rain, along with the roar of our quads’ engines.

I sighed as we continued our ride down the muddy and rocky dirt road, searching for a way to get back to our camp. I looked ahead to see Dad holding the GPS in one hand while steering with the other. Eventually, he slowed to a stop, and I cautiously pulled up behind him. The rain pattered on us as I watched Dad for a long moment. He looked tired and frustrated, just as I did. After all, we had been lost for several hours already, and my body was beginning to give out. Then he turned to me.

“Seth? I think I have a way now. But let’s pray this time,” he told me.

I rolled my eyes. This was about the tenth “way” that my dad had thought was the correct path back to camp. By now, I had no faith in him—and little faith in God. Still, I complied and bowed my head.

“Dear heavenly Father, guide us safely back to camp,” Dad prayed. It was simple and straight to the point.

As we continued, I somehow felt even more dejected. I shivered from the cold rain and glanced at my gas gauge as the needle moved closer to the empty mark. “We aren’t making it back,” I muttered to myself. Then, I caught myself. “No, I need to trust in God,” I proclaimed, though figuring Heaven probably wouldn’t hear me through the storm.

Eventually, Dad slowed down again. As I reached him, I saw the road ahead of us turn left. My eyes followed the trail, and my heart sank as I saw one of the most frightening scenes that I had ever encountered while four-wheeling. The trail wound up a very steep hill until about the halfway point. It then crept along the side of a cliff on a severe slant before heading up and over the top. The really bad news was that this trail was a slick, wet, and muddy mess. The cliff dropped some 20 to 30 feet. Is making it through even possible? I wondered.

Quickly Dad glanced in my direction, then hit the gas and began driving up the hill. I was in awe as he expertly maneuvered up the dangerous path, managing to position himself at the high edge of the slippery slope. After that, he simply drove along that edge, turned left, and cleared the cliff.

At least now I knew it was indeed possible. It was my turn to do the same. As I approached the hill, I repeated inwardly, If he can do it, I can do it. This was in spite of the fact that my dad had more years of experience four-wheeling than I had been alive. Regardless, I mustered up the courage to follow Dad’s tire tracks up the hill.

At first, everything went fine. This isn’t so bad, I thought as I came to the steep upgrade. I inspected exactly where my father’s tracks were, remembering how he almost seemed to ride on top of the slope, and I was careful to mimic his movements. However, my anxiety began to get the better of me, and my trust in God and my own abilities waned.

This prompted me to drive even faster in order to get past the danger more quickly. I didn’t notice at first when my front right tire slipped, but I did notice when the entire quad began sliding. I hit the gas, but the lack of traction thwarted my efforts. Within the blink of an eye, I was sliding downward toward the cliff drop. I was powerless. I felt my heart cry out for some sort of help. My grip tightened around the handlebars, and I braced, awaiting my demise. I waited some more, but I never went over the edge. Somehow, unexplainably, I had just stopped.

I let out a deep breath and looked down. I found myself peering over the cliff and down to the rocky earth below. Next, I looked where I’d slipped and stopped. There was no rock or uneven terrain to stop my fall, yet something had stopped me. I took another deep breath and pressed the gas with my shaky thumb. My quad moved back up the slope and I made the final turn to clear the hill.

“You all right? Kinda scary, huh?” Dad asked with a chuckle as I came over the top. He was completely unaware of what had just happened moments earlier.

“Yeah,” I replied with a weak voice and a nervous laugh.

After a long moment, my dad turned back around, and we continued our journey.

As luck would have it, this treacherous path was the correct way back to camp. But wait—it wasn’t luck at all! I remembered the short and simple prayer that my dad had uttered amid the storm. A prayer to guide us and keep us safe. It wasn’t anything big or grand, but it was enough for God to hear. And maybe God had heard me through the storm too.

Back at camp Dad and I knelt down under the canopy, thanking God for His help and deliverance. Finally, I was able to relax with my newfound trust in prayer.