Hide And Seek: When God Protects

I have read Psalm 18 hundreds of times, but there is a version of that psalm that you can only learn in the dark. You can memorize it in the light, you can preach it in comfort, but you can only feel it—really feel it—when life leaves you nowhere to stand but in the sheltering shadow of God Himself. David wrote, “The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer… my high tower.” Those were poetic lines once. Later, they became my biography.

Our family had been living overseas for some time—ordinary life, ordinary routines—raising our three young children on the second floor of a residential building in Kuwait City. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heroic. It was just life: worship, community, friendships, late-night talks, children’s laughter echoing off tile floors. The city itself was a blend of modern buildings, desert winds, cosmopolitan charm, and relentless heat. We loved it. We settled into it. It became home.

Then came the summer that changed everything.

I had been making visits to nearby countries—simple trips, nothing unusual. After several weeks of travel, I planned to be away longer. But on one particular day, out of nowhere, I felt something I could not ignore: a sudden, unmistakable urge to return to Kuwait immediately. There was no crisis waiting for me. No emergency tugging me back. No explanation at all. Just a strong internal impression that said, Get home tonight.

I’ve walked with God long enough to know that sometimes the Holy Spirit whispers, and sometimes He pushes. That day, it was a push.

I changed my ticket and called my wife.

She answered with surprise and a smile in her voice. “You ruined my anniversary surprise,” she said. She had quietly booked a night away for us at a beach hotel south of the city, a place we both enjoyed. Because of my schedule change, she adjusted the plan and moved the reservation to the Holiday Inn instead. It felt like a small inconvenience at the time. Later, it became one of the clearest evidences that the hand of God had been guiding us long before we knew why.

We arrived late that night. The children were excited, as children always are when life feels like an adventure. We settled in, enjoyed the air-conditioning—a gift in 130-degree weather—and went to bed.

The next morning, the children woke us early. I turned on the TV to find something to keep them occupied while we stirred awake. But instead of kids’ programming, the screen flashed breaking news: Iraqi forces were crossing the border into Kuwait. Tanks were rolling toward the capital. Soldiers were entering the city.

I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Eight floors below, the highway was thick with military vehicles—trucks, troop carriers, armored tanks—filling lanes in both directions.

And then the phone rang.

A friend, breathless and panicked:

“Have you heard what’s happening at the hotel south of the city? Soldiers have taken it over. Western guests are being rounded up.”

I didn’t need to finish the sentence.

If I had not changed my flight—

if my wife had not changed the reservation—

if we had gone to the original hotel—

we would have been among those taken.

What looked like an inconvenience the night before turned out to be God hiding us in plain sight.

It is a strange feeling when you suddenly realize that your life has been preserved by a decision you didn’t fully understand while making it. I stood there in the hotel room, the sound of tanks rumbling below us, and all I could think was: The Lord is my rock, and my fortress…

We decided to return to our apartment to see what the situation was. The roads were lined with soldiers. Some buildings already showed signs of shelling. Smoke drifted through the heat. My children watched from their car seats, asking questions that parents don’t want to answer.

When we reached our neighborhood, the change was immediate. Our apartment building sat only a short distance from significant government structures—places the invading forces quickly targeted. The air was thick with tension. You could hear gunfire in the distance, sometimes closer than comfort would allow. We moved the children to an interior room and prayed with them, using the words they understood:

“Jesus is with us. Jesus sees us. Jesus protects us.”

That Sabbath evening, we sang simple children’s songs—songs of angels, songs of trust—holding onto a peace that felt fragile on the surface but strong underneath.

Then the phone rang again.

A friend:

“Have you heard? Westerners at the beach hotel have been taken to Baghdad. They’re being used as human shields.”

My wife and I looked at each other, the same realization hitting us at the same moment:

If I had not come home early—