It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving - the day some traffic cops call Black Wednesday because they can always count on a high number of traffic fatalities on that day. It had become our custom for my five-year-old daughter, Caroline, and me to go to Shreveport to visit with relatives who gathered from all over the country for a few days during Thanksgiving. My musician husband, Lynn, would stay in Baton Rouge to have dinner with his aging parents and spend some time working on his latest album. And that was our plan for this holiday.

Caroline and I were up early, eager to hit the road. She had gone to bed late the night before, and I knew she would be ready for a nap around noon.

We loaded the car and called Lynn's office to tell him we were leaving. I had to run a couple of errands before we left town, and noticed the heavy traffic as we made our way along the secondary roads. I knew that Interstate 10, which was always busy, would be more crowded than usual with travelers trying to get home for the holidays.

When we finished our last errand, I put Caroline in the back seat, belted her in, and got her settled for a nap with her little pink satin pillow and Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. I was actually looking forward to the four-hour drive. With Caroline sleeping most of the way, it would be a good time for me to meditate and enjoy some rare quiet time.

I got onto Interstate 10 via a ramp just east of the Mississippi River Bridge and moved my car into the center lane. We were not quite half way across the bridge when I felt a sudden and powerful urge to pray for our safety.

Now, when I am being led by the Holy Spirit, there is no audible voice and the impulse doesn't originate in my head. It originates in my mid section, somewhere beneath my heart, and floats up to my unsuspecting brain. At that point, my mind, normally accustomed to being in control, is sometimes startled and always puzzled. This time was no different. But I acted without hesitation.

"Caroline," I called to see whether she was still awake.

"What, Mama?" she answered.

"We need to pray, Baby. Hold Mama's hand and let's pray."

I reached into the back seat and held her tiny hand as I implored the Lord to send angels before us to make our way safe, and to send angels to surround the car to protect us from harm and to prevent us from harming anyone else.

When I finished praying, I said, "Amen." I heard nothing from the back seat, so I prompted her. "Say amen, Baby." "Amen, Mama," she said.

I looked at my clock. It was exactly 12:30.

Traffic had been a problem on the stretch of Interstate 10 from Baton Rouge to Lafayette for the previous year due to construction. And for some reason, the construction was never confined to one lane at a time. Instead, the work shifted back and forth, confusing drivers about which lane to use in order to keep moving.

At 12:45, just 15 minutes after Caroline and I had prayed, I was suddenly forced to stop in the left lane behind a long line of traffic. The Interstate at that point was lined on both sides with massive concrete guardrails, designed to keep out-of-control vehicles from careening into the Atchafalaya Swamp.

As soon as my car came to a stop, I glanced into my rear-view mirror to see whether I could pull into the right lane. The instant I looked into the mirror, I saw an 18-wheeler, traveling at a high rate of speed, hit a small white car just four or five car lengths behind me. The driver of the white car apparently had not seen the truck, and had tried to switch to the right lane just as the truck was passing. The car glanced off to the left. The truck continued, now out of control, down the right lane of the Interstate.

I instinctively turned my steering wheel to the left, but there was no place for me to go. The cars were still stopped in front of me, and the guardrail on the left had me blocked. I knew that if that truck veered left, even a few feet, our car would be smashed between the immovable concrete guardrail and the speeding, out-of-control 18-wheeler. But there was nothing I could do.

As I sat, breathlessly gripping the steering wheel, with my eyes frozen on the rear-view mirror, the 18-wheeler suddenly jerked to the right. I was stunned to see the right side tires jump over the guardrail, and the truck, with the left tires on the road and the right tires riding the top of the guardrail, continue toward us. As the truck proceeded down the Interstate, tilted at this precarious angle, the horrible sound of the truck's underbelly grinding against the concrete was deafening.

The truck had been traveling at such a high rate of speed that even this didn't stop the forward thrust. It continued toward us, leaning to the left, for what seemed like an impossibly long time. I didn't pray. I didn't even breathe. I just stared, unblinkingly, at the enormous, threatening mass of steel as it came closer and closer and closer....

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