I have preached many times, urging my congregations to “trust in the Lord.” It is easy to say those words from behind a pulpit. It is much harder to live them when circumstances are beyond your control and rest in the hands of someone else. Such was the case during my recent trip to Monrovia, Liberia.

As director of the foreign missions program for Original Free Will Baptists, it is both my privilege and responsibility to visit our mission fields—observing the work and encouraging our laborers. I planned my trip in early January for mid-February. The flight itinerary was secured, and the Liberian field supervisor, Darlington Gnininite, scheduled a full agenda so I could see as much of the ministry as possible during my stay.

Liberia requires a visa for entry. I knew there was insufficient time to secure one through the Liberian Embassy in Washington, D.C., but my research indicated that I could obtain a travel visa en route. It would cost more, but given the timeline, it seemed necessary. Confident in that plan, I boarded my flight from Raleigh-Durham.

The first leg took me to Newark, New Jersey, followed by a nine-hour flight to Brussels, Belgium. I rarely sleep on airplanes—even for a few minutes—so I was exhausted. I hoped to rest during the four-hour layover before boarding for Africa.

When boarding began for Monrovia (via Sierra Leone), I noticed a discrepancy between my seat assignment on the app and the printed boarding pass. I approached the desk agent for clarification. She took my passport and boarding pass, began typing, flipped through my passport, and then asked about my visa.

I explained my plan to secure it upon arrival. She responded firmly that without a visa, my ticket would be canceled and I would be returned to the United States. As we spoke, I sensed that she had no intention of allowing me on that plane.

Standing at the adjacent computer terminal was an African man checking his own documents. He overheard the conversation and gently interjected, “I think I can help you.”

His name was John Kaykay, a Liberian minister now living in the United States. He asked about my purpose for travel and whom I represented. After hearing my answers, he offered to assist. Providentially, he had a friend working in Liberia’s Foreign Ministry who could help expedite the visa. He immediately made the call, shared my information, and forwarded a photo of my passport.

We knew there would be a fee. I was prepared to pay—but how do you pay cash over the phone? Without hesitation, John offered to facilitate payment using his wife’s Venmo account. Payment was sent. Now we waited.

Boarding began.

“Zone One may board…”
“Zone Two may board…”
“Zone Three…”

I was Zone Five.

The minutes passed quickly. Fewer than twenty minutes remained before the gate would close. A long line of passengers moved steadily forward.

“Lord, I have nothing,” I prayed silently. “All I can do is depend on You.”

Fifteen minutes.

Then suddenly—a “ping” from WhatsApp. A PDF image of the visa.

I hurried to the desk. The agent looked at me as though I had performed a miracle. I had not—but the Lord had. After verification, she summoned her supervisor to reinstate my ticket.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill. Right this way.”

I turned to John and said, “I’m in!” I informed the agent that John Kaykay would be boarding as well. We bypassed the remaining line and walked down the jet bridge together.

At the aircraft door, I discreetly handed John folded cash—both to cover the visa and to thank him for his help. He refused.

“Let it be seed money for the mission,” he said.

I protested.

“Keep it,” he insisted.

Soon I was seated—this time in the correct seat—praising the Lord for His providence. “Thank You, Jesus.” There is no human explanation for how all of that unfolded apart from God’s intervention—and John Kaykay’s obedience.

Upon landing in Sierra Leone, those disembarking exited while the remaining passengers waited. John came to check on me again. I renewed my insistence that he at least reimburse his friend at the Foreign Ministry. Reluctantly, he accepted the funds.

When we arrived in Monrovia, we entered passport control. Though officers directed him elsewhere as a Liberian citizen, John refused to leave my side. He remained in line with me until we were redirected to another lane—where, remarkably, the officer was a personal friend of his. After a brief conversation, we were cleared without difficulty.

We collected our luggage. I thanked John again and again. And then, just as unexpectedly as he had appeared, he was gone. I never saw him again.

As I reflect on that day, I am struck by the details. John had no apparent reason to be standing at that desk. As a Liberian citizen, he had no visa concerns. Yet he was positioned precisely where I needed him. He had the right connections, the necessary resources, and the willingness to help a stranger.

Perhaps passport control would have been smooth without him—but with him beside me, there was no question, no resistance.

None of it made sense at the time. Yet it became a profound reminder that trusting the Lord is not merely a sermon point—it is a lived reality. When we reach the end of our ability, we discover the sufficiency of God’s providence.

Sometimes trust looks like waiting at a boarding gate with nothing left but prayer.

And sometimes God sends a John Kaykay.