I was proud of my Toyota truck.

Got it used. 128,000 miles, but still sleek as a cow of Bashan.

Red with speed stripes down the side. Best of all, four-wheel drive. A Leviathan — jacked off the ground and invincible.

With my enviable chariot, I was ready for winter. Whenever I climbed up into that cab, I surveyed all before me with complete trust that nothing could stop this machine. Neither snow, nor ice, nor slush, nor gloom of mud.

That fateful snowy Monday morning, I locked in the four-wheel drive, my son and I pulled ourselves into the cab and I backed out of the driveway. We were off. Not a worry in the world.

Not a mile down the road, at the first right-hand bend past the railroad tracks, the truck went into a slide. In strange defiance of the laws of physics, instead of flying off to the left, following the trajectory of inertia, the goodly frame of my beautiful red Leviathan seemed to be hooked by some mysterious force. It was as though we were being yanked by an invisible cord straight into the ditch on the right.

No problem. Remain calm. Don't brake. Steer out of it, slow and easy. I learned to drive in snow. Lived two years in Wisconsin, six in Minnesota. I knew we — my truck and I — would prevail.

But no matter what I did, that invisible cord, pulled by something, so it seemed, bent on my destruction, reeled me straight toward the ditch. If I had been a better Catholic, I would have uttered some quick and efficacious prayer — to my guardian angel, to St. Joseph, to the Blessed Virgin, to God. Aristotle, the great pagan philosopher, remarked that you can judge a man by the actions he does quickly, without time for deliberation, for those actions spring directly from his character. I just kept trying to steer out of it.

The invisible cord, hooked into the mouth of my Leviathan, just kept reeling us, slowly and methodically, into the hungry ditch. “This can't be,” I thought.

Thunder on the right, as the mighty jaws of the car bit the bank, and the bank bit back even more savagely, hurling the truck around like a toy. The white of snow, the brown of freshly ravaged dirt, the red of metal, the gray of shadow, all whirling chaotically before our eyes.

More thunder as the wounded frame struck the bank again, and heaved over onto its roof. Crushing metal, bursting glass raining everywhere, my son shouting. “Stop! Please stop!” I screamed in my head, as the cab continued to collapse under the weight of Leviathan, now flipped on its great back, belly exposed, wheels spinning foolishly in the air.

And it did stop, just in time. Dangling in the air, I undid my seatbelt and fell, headfirst, onto the mangled roof. I felt for the handle, opened the door, dropped out. My son came after.

I stood staring at the wreck, feeling the grit and glass in my teeth, studying the iron crushed as straw. I slammed the inverted door. “My truck! It's gone!”

I should have been on my knees, right there in the road, thanking God, St. Mary, St. Joseph and our guardian angels for preserving us from harm. But all I could think of was my truck lying, mortally wounded, on its back.

“Do you have insurance?” the police officer asked.

“Just liability. It was a '90.”

“Too bad,” he said, shaking his head. “You're going to eat it all.”

I watched out the windshield of the police car as the wrecker hooked the side of the mighty Leviathan, and reeled in the cord until it flipped back over onto its feet. An $8400 piece of scrap metal, a mere carcass fit only for those who scavenge parts.

What did I learn? That life is fragile. Most of us have a misplaced feeling of immortality, believing that we are guaranteed at least three score and 10 years. But death can come at any time. That day, I entered, with my son, into the valley of the shadow of death. It was a cold and unforgettable moment. Was I prepared — really prepared — for death that day?

The second lesson I learned that day was that no man-made thing, however beautiful, sturdy and well-crafted, can protect us from the forces that can claim human life. As much as we boast in our technology — whether it be seemingly indestructible buildings, or a truck, or medical gadgets — we are still subject to death. Again, we must always pray: not only for protection of our fragile lives, but even more that we shall be prepared when, either suddenly or slowly, that moment arrives. Let our boast be in the name of the Lord our God.

Thirdly, it occurred to me, in the hours that followed our narrow escape from the clutches of death, how important it is to see that that, behind the very ordinary things of our day, and the extraordinary things as well, a great cosmic battle is underway. There are angels working both for our salvation and our destruction.

Finally, I have thought back over the accident many times, and two things continue to stand out. On the one hand, I was not speeding, I know how to drive in the snow and the truck was in four-wheel drive. Even stranger, the truck slid in the opposite direction it should have; no matter what I did, there seemed to be an evil force reeling me into that ditch (perhaps part of the hook being in my pride). On the other hand, some opposing powers, our guardian angels, saved us from harm, as would be clear to anyone who surveyed the demolished truck.

So the truck is gone, but some important lessons have been learned. I will soon be out on the road in a much humbler chariot, driving even more carefully. Praying. And remaining mindful, all the while, of Psalm 20:7: “Some boast of chariots, and some of horses; but we boast in the name of the Lord our God.”

Benjamin Wiker teaches philosophy of science at Franciscan University of Steubenville (Ohio).