I posted the picture on Instagram a few months ago: a scorched, burnt and completely totaled gray Hyundai Sonata.

“This is why I say I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” I captioned it. “Yesterday, my mother parked her car and walked into my house with my sister. Not even 10 minutes later, the car went up in flames. Can’t make this up. The timing, the setting, the divine protection can only point to Christ Jesus, I swear. You can’t tell me God ain’t real.”

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and my post was proof of that. After 24 hours, it became my most-viewed story ever on Instagram, with just under 1,000 views. My inbox was flooded with messages of concern, prayers and even legal advice.

But once the story vanished from my timeline, I realized the picture alone couldn’t fully explain what transpired that day. A safely parked car with no apparent issues, bursting into flames within minutes of parking? Was this God? A miracle? Who would believe me?

Supernatural phenomena, good karma and miracles happen daily, for sure. Initially, I wanted this incident to be a miracle — because miracles, though unexplainable, feel lighter and less certain. But in the days that followed, the more I processed, the clearer it became: This wasn’t coincidence. This was God.

Now, I’m not saying attending church is the solution for problems. I don’t think that’s how faith, church or God works. And to be honest, I’m a thinker and a realist. If something doesn’t make sense logically, I’m quick to question it. But this — this was different.

For years, church and God weren’t part of my life. After the passing of my grandmother — the spiritual matriarch of our family and family church — I let go of the little faith I had. By the time I hit my 20s and halfway through my 30s, I was completely checked out of Christianity. Weddings, funerals and late-night televangelist shows were the closest I got to a church.

In recent years, my mother has tried to bring me back. She’s regularly invited me to her home church, the Church of Christ, a nondenominational Christian congregation with unique views on baptism, communion and church autonomy based on first-century Bible teaching. My skepticism on her church and modern Christianity still kept me away and completely turned off by the faith.

I grew up in the Black Baptist church like many inner-city kids. My childhood church had all the classic traits — elderly women in big hats, deacons who reeked of cologne and vodka, and plenty of hand clapping, feet stomping and Holy Ghost-filled shouting. Like most youth who grew up in the church, by the time I turned 16, sermons felt like motivational speeches that wore off by Monday.

The Holy Ghost that elders talked about didn’t speak to me, and Air Force 1s were more appealing than winged-tipped Stacy Adams. And to be quite honest, a lot of the church folks I knew were more judgmental, ungodly and hypocritical than people on the streets.

I was never technically atheist or agnostic but could have been, given I was the only God I needed.

But life has a funny way of humbling you. Last year, during a rough transition season of my life, I found myself searching for something more. Slowly, I started attending my mother’s church. At first, once every few months, then every few weeks. Before I knew it, I attended more church than brunches and day parties.

The very place I had run from became a place of refuge. This time, the teaching felt less about entertainment and more about holy truth. The men of God didn’t act self-righteous or cold — they met me where I was and wrapped their arms around me. It was what I needed.

On April 21, I was baptized into the Church of Christ. It felt like a turning point. But faith tests you, and walking with a God isn’t easy. Doubt doesn’t go away easily.

By the morning of Sunday, June 2, my doubt was at an all-time high. During the service, I kept thinking “I don’t belong here.” It gnawed at me so much that I almost walked out. Afterward, I socialized with members, smiling and pretending everything was fine, but inside, I was conflicted. My minister and his wife said to me: “You belong here.” I wasn’t so sure.

Then, 15 minutes after we left church and arrived at my apartment, my mother’s car caught fire.

We had just parked, I was following behind in my car, when the building’s fire alarm went off. A neighbor mentioned that a gray car was in flames out front and I knew instantly it was my mother’s.

Seeing the flames engulf her Hyundai Sonata was surreal. The very vehicle she and my sister sat in minutes before was burning to ashes. The timing, the circumstances — it was too precise to be random. They could have lost their lives. I had questioned God that morning, and here was his response.

I’ve thought of every possible scenario for what went wrong. Did my mother forget to change her oil? Did she miss a recall? But no matter how much I analyzed it, the conclusion remained the same: Divine intervention saved our lives.

God was telling me: “You’re right where you belong.”

I’ve seen a lot of people like me returning to the faith. Some say post-COVID social effects are contributing to that, but I say God is healing us all.

In the Bible, God spoke to Moses through a burning bush. After Christ’s resurrection, tongues of fire appeared above the disciples. I don’t know what signs others are waiting for, but this was mine and if he spoke to me, then I know that if you seek him, he’ll make himself known. Just as he did to me through that fire.