A Rainy Ride and a Prayer

I never liked rain. In Malang, where I live, it pours heavily, making roads slippery and the air cold. But as a motorbike salesman, I don’t get to choose when to ride. If a customer needs a test ride or help, I have to go, rain or not.

One evening, the sky darkened and rain poured down. I was delivering a motorbike across town. The road was crowded, my thin raincoat useless against the cold. My tires hissed on the wet asphalt.

As I turned onto a smaller road near the traditional market, a truck’s honk startled me. Headlights flashed. My front wheel slipped. This is it, I thought.

But something strange happened. My mind went silent. My hands tightened on the handlebars, and I whispered, “God, help me.” Somehow I didn’t fall. The bike wobbled but stayed upright. I pulled over, heart pounding. The truck roared past, the driver yelling something I couldn’t hear.

I sat there, rain dripping from my helmet. A part of me wanted to curse back, but another part felt … different. I should have crashed. I should have been under that truck’s tires. But I wasn’t.

That night, after delivering the bike, I rode home slowly, replaying the moment. It wasn’t luck. I’d ridden in the rain for years. That slip should have meant a fall. Maybe it was just reflex. Maybe something more.

Since then, every time I ride in the rain I remember that moment. I still don’t like the rain, but I don’t hate it either. And before every trip, I whisper a prayer.

A week later, I had another delivery to Batu. The winding roads were misty, the air thick with moisture. Halfway there, I stopped for coffee. The old owner noticed my damp jacket. “Heavy rain in the city?”

“Yes, sir. Almost fell yesterday.”

He nodded. “Sometimes we forget to pray before we go. But that’s the most important thing.”

His words stuck with me. I did pray before riding, but not always. Maybe that night, when I whispered that quick prayer, it wasn’t just my hands keeping me steady. Maybe it was a reminder: I wasn’t riding alone.

The rest of the ride felt lighter. When I delivered the bike, I took a moment to smile, to be present. For the first time in a long time, I felt like every moment mattered.

A month later, my wife noticed. "You seem calmer now when you work."

I chuckled. "Maybe I realized that God rides with me."

She laughed, but I meant it. Faith isn’t always about big moments, sermons, or miracles. Sometimes it’s just knowing you’re not alone, even when the night is dark and the rain is heavy.

One evening, my younger brother rode with me to a family gathering. He was still learning, so I told him to follow closely. The rain was light but steady. Near the town's edge, he took a sharp turn and wobbled. Everything slowed down—just like before.

He didn’t fall. He steadied just in time. When we stopped at a roadside stall, he exhaled loudly. "That was close!"

I patted his shoulder. "Did you pray before riding?"

Sheepish, he smiled. "I forgot."

We drank hot tea as rain drizzled outside. I didn’t say much. I didn’t need to. Some lessons aren’t taught with words. You live them.

People ask if I believe in miracles. I don’t always know how to answer. Some expect them to be grand. But sometimes, miracles are small. A hand that steadies you. A whisper in your heart when you're afraid. A reminder to pray before you ride. And maybe, just maybe, a rainy road in Malang, where a man learns he’s never riding alone.