In the 1980s, Jacintoport Road situated along the Houston Ship Channel felt like a road history had forgotten—overgrown, deserted, and bordered by silent WWII concrete bunkers, their edges disappearing into wild brush.
As I drove past those old ordnance “igloos” toward an isolated chemical plant, it seemed less like a routine sales call and more like stepping into an episode of The Twilight Zone—some hidden, unsettling chapter of Houston’s past.
Arriving at my destination, I saw that the “parking lot” was little more than a rough gravel patch rimmed with tough, scraggly vegetation. It deepened my sense of being truly out of the way. I went through my usual ritual: locked the car, reached for my briefcase—and suddenly froze. The door latched shut, and there were my keys, shining up at me from the ignition.
The reality set in, sharp and unwelcome. Manual locks, no remote fob—this was a genuine predicament.
I just stood there for a moment, frustration and embarrassment mounting, wondering what I could possibly do. Then I lowered my head, and, as if the answer had been placed there by providence itself, I saw it: a pristine wire coat hanger sitting right between my shoes in the gravel. I blinked, half convinced I was seeing things, but it was there—almost as if someone knew I’d need it.
Someone certainly did.
Finding that coat hanger felt every bit like a miracle straight out of scripture. I thought of the time Jesus told Peter, “Go cast a line; the first fish you catch will have a coin in its mouth, enough to pay the temple tax” (Matthew 17:27). God’s provision, arriving exactly in the moment of need.
I closed my eyes and whispered the most reverential and heartfelt “Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you.” After a few quick bends, I slipped the hanger between the glass and door frame, hooked the lock, popped it up, and got back into my car, relieved beyond measure.
I made it to my meeting right on time. I don’t think I ever sold that company a single thing, but that trip down Jacintoport’s lonely road showed me something far more important: God meets our needs, sometimes in ways we least expect.
Most days, provision seems routine—buying groceries, paying the bills, replacing our kids’ threadbare jeans. Sometimes, relief comes just when the A/C finally gives out. We thank God for those things, but we rarely stop to notice: His ordinary, everyday providence is a miracle in itself.
So this week, pause and give thanks. Not just for dramatic rescues, but for all the ways God quietly cares for us day by day. And don’t be surprised if, at just the right moment, you discover your own “coat hanger” is waiting right there, exactly when you need it most.
And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:19)
. . . and that’s what I know today.