For years, I have lived with a recurring nightmare.

In it, I am on a train or a bus. Everything feels normal—until it isn’t. The moment comes when I am supposed to get off, and somehow, I miss my stop. Or worse, I get off too early and find myself lost, disoriented, and unsettled. It’s the kind of dream that lingers long after waking—a persistent anxiety that something will go wrong!

It’s a fear that didn’t appear out of nowhere.

It has followed me into my waking life for as long as I can remember. It was formed years ago, during my high school days, when I traveled to boarding school. Traveling by bus at night carried a weight that is hard to fully describe – long, dark stretches of road, unfamiliar stops, and the constant awareness that I was alone and far from home.

Even now, as an adult who has traveled far and wide, that fear is never far away.

I travel each day on the Virginia Railway Express (VRE), and in truth, it is one of the great gifts of my routine. For 50 minutes each way, I am immersed in books, music, and audiobooks—a treasured pocket of peace. Yet, beneath that calm enjoyment sits a constant awareness: Don’t miss your stop.

And then—yesterday—it finally happened.

I missed my stop.

I was deep in thought, carried away by the most beautiful music, when I glanced out the window and saw something unfamiliar—a body of water I had never noticed before. In that instant, I knew. I had gone too far.

I texted my husband, who was waiting at the station, watching passengers disembark. When I told him, “I passed my stop,” he thought I was joking. After all, he has heard about my nightmares for over 30 years. But this time, it was real.

I reassured him I would be alright, got off at the next stop, and did what anyone would do—I called for an Uber.

$30. Painful.

Except… the driver called and asked me to cancel. He couldn’t reach me without permission. Slightly annoyed, I tried again. The second driver called with the same explanation.

That’s when I learned the truth: I was inside a major military base.

And just like that, my lifelong panic came rushing in.

I walked into a nearby restaurant and asked a kind woman if it was true. She confirmed it—and kindly explained that I would need an authorized cab to leave the base. So, I searched, found a number, and called.

Twenty minutes later, a young woman arrived.

She couldn’t have been more than 26.

As we drove, she began to share her story. She was a foreigner in the United States, navigating uncertainty, loneliness, and disappointment. Despite having a degree, she found herself driving a cab, unsure of what her future held.

Her story felt familiar—because it was.

It echoed my own journey from years ago.

So I shared my story. She shared hers. And then she spoke about her faith—how she was trusting God to guide her, to provide, to make a way.

And something stirred deeply within me.

I began to speak—not just casually, but with conviction—about my own faith. About how God has been my shield, my guide, my Shepherd. What started as a simple ride turned into something far more meaningful: a moment of connection, encouragement, and shared belief…

In every sense, a God Moment!

When I finally arrived home, safe and settled, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. After all these years of fearing this very scenario, it had finally happened – and I had survived it.

But more than that, something else became clear.

What I once feared became the very doorway to something meaningful. What had haunted me, no tormented me, became the path – if only for a moment, if only for a conversation, if only for one person.

In the quiet reflection of that evening, I felt a deep realization: my assignment that day was not simply to get home. It was to meet her. To listen. To share. To remind – just as I once needed reminding, that she is not alone, and that her story is still unfolding.

I missed my stop. But I had not missed my purpose.

And now, I find myself asking—not out of doubt, but out of deep reverence and longing:

Who is this God?