He handed me the keys and gave the instructions. With that, it was suddenly my responsibility to drive the girls home. Being part of a college music ensemble had many duties, but I hadn’t counted on this. It was late, it was dark, it was a long drive, and we were all very tired.
Dutifully, I took the keys and led our weary group to the lumbering white station wagon. We piled in, and by the time I merged on to I-69 West, the entire back seat was sleeping. Thank goodness, my friend Beth sat in front and chatted as I drove.
To this day, I am woefully negligent about checking my gas tank, but for some reason that night, it caught my eye. It was precariously low. Beth and I decided it would be best to start looking for a station sooner rather than later.
No one who lived through the oil crisis of 1973 will forget the panic that the oil embargo caused. At the time, I was in 9th grade and mainly concerned about having fun with my friends, but I do remember how, in an effort to conserve fuel, highway speed limits were dropped to 55 mph. Suffice it to say, my dad was not impressed. The closure of many gas stations and the ensuing long lines at the remaining stations that were open was a memory firmly entrenched.
Since that time, gas prices had been steadily rising, and most gas stations began closing early. You learned not to let your gas tank get too low. Using precious fuel, we began to take exit after exit in search of a place to fill the car.
Things began to look desperate, and tension knotted my shoulders. That’s what happens when I get stressed. There are times NASA could send a rocket into orbit with the pressure harnessed in my shoulders. After that, my stomach joins the fun. This evening was turning into a two-punch combo, all fueled by my inclination to overthink everything.
Beth was pretty chill. I chalk it up to her being the middle child and second daughter. She didn’t have to worry, everyone else in her family was already doing it for her. I, on the other hand, embraced every bit of concern that duty offered, and then some.
There was also my mother who, though a saint of a woman, did have a tendency to overemphasize some things about safety, especially for her girls. God bless her. I was the perfect breeding ground for anxiety.
And anxious I was.
The Michigan murders of 1969 had not floated over the top of my sixth-grade head that year.
And how about the girls who had been murdered on the way home from school—strangled with their own hose?
This is what comes from a child who reads everything in sight.
What-if we ran out of gas on the highway? Or what-if no one could find us? Which turned into what-if a serial killer found us? What-if some other evil befell us? What-if our hose-bound legs were supplying our killers with the very weapons that led to our demise?
The what-ifs mounted as the gas needle sank.
Finally, after driving through another small town only to find all of the gas stations closed, I decided to go back to the police station I had passed. It seemed the wisest place to run out of gas.
There, I nervously relayed my dilemma to a kind officer. It is very likely that tears sat at the edges of my eyes while I told him, but I can’t say that for sure. I do know that, in a matter of minutes, we were following a squad car to a gas station that was open.
It was with great joy that I put some gas in that car—albeit not too much. Poor college students don’t have extra money. We hoped and prayed it would be enough gas to get us home. Meanwhile, the gang slept on.
Oh, how I wanted to get home. The night dragged. There were a few wrong turns and several stops to drop off the blithely oblivious passengers and faithful copilot, but, finally, sometime past 1 AM, I pulled into the long driveway leading up to my house.
The bright back-door light and the welcoming, soft glow in the kitchen filled me with relief.
Quietly, I stepped into the house. As I walked around the entry corner, I could see my mother sitting on our velvet, mustard-yellow love seat.
Yes, the very same woman who had taught me proper fear and caution.
Her Bible was on her lap, and she spoke softly—earnestly, “Are you all right?”
As I poured out what happened, I tried to downplay how frightened I truly was. But she knew. Her mother’s heart caught every ounce of fear, frustration, and exhaustion. Nodding her head, she told me how she couldn’t sleep. Something was wrong, and she knew she needed to pray for us.
For me.
Getting out of bed and reaching for her Bible, she made her way to the living room. There she sat praying and reading until I walked in the door.
I had driven that white station wagon like General Patton commandeering a tank in World War II. I felt solely responsible. It’s funny how alone I felt.
But there were so many things I could not see—
Like my friend who sat by my side. She couldn’t manufacture fuel, but she was there with me.
And the police station at the right place, and the officer who knew where to lead me, at the right time.
There had been just enough money to supply what we needed to get home.
And a godly mother praying for me—refusing to go to sleep until she knew I was safe.
I had to admit that even those sleeping beauties in the back seat would have rallied if needed.
Mostly, though, there were angels on my bumpers and a God who filled every space of that car.
But I couldn’t see any of that as I drove through the night.
It can be like that in the darkness, can’t it?
Uncertainty and fear can cloud our vision to those who remain by our side,
and those who will be there to lead us, just when we need them.
We can’t always see how our needs will be met
or who our faithful prayer warriors are.
And, face it, we forget that—
Sometimes even those who seem oblivious will respond if we call.
Could it be possible that all the things we cannot see are what will lead us home?
Like the angels that surround us and a God Who never leaves?
That was very wise of you to go back to the police station. I don’t think many of the young people today would think to do that. Similar situation going on today…this time with groceries and paper goods. Thankfully we can trust in God and have peace through Him.
We were always taught the police were our friends, weren’t we? Though I am not sure if they would be able to take us to groceries and paper goods today…
Who was the knucklehead who gave you the keys without checking the gas tank for you?
He is now one of the wisest, godliest men that I know!
I’m definitely going to the police station when I need new toilet paper! Well done, my friend.
Great post Melissa, and such a timely reminder that God always goes before us and knows where to lead, who to send along and how to show us HE hasn’t forgotten one single detail.
No, He never forgets or misses even the tiniest detail, Beth. Now, just to remember that!
You crack me up! Not sure if they would help you with that but it is definitely worth a try 🙂
Oh my… the power of prayer!
Clearly God had more important things for your mother to do that night than sleep… pray for her loved one and be encouraged by the Scripture. So neat… thanks for sharing.
And, Tammy, if you are like me (and I think you are), her example inspires me to keep praying for my own children and grandchildren!