Quiet Mantra

“This one’s not open either,” he mutters in an I want you to hear this but I don’t want to say it out loud because that makes it feel more real sort of way. I take a deep breath, and, as is often my job in the passenger’s seat, start planning. I open up the maps app on my phone and search gas stations near me. This can’t be right… 

“The nearest station is in Casper… 100 miles away”

We forsook the overpriced gas station just outside of Grand Teton National Park, mainly because we had just slipped our warm, limp children from their sleeping bags and placed them in car seats, hoping the before-dawn darkness would encourage them to reenter sleep. One hundred sixty miles of rolling foothills and a chatty backseat later we regret our decision. The ‘miles til empty’ meter on the dashboard of our van reads just eighty-six.

The noise in the backseat continues as children laugh and fight, but the silence in the front seat is so thick, I wonder if I am underwater. In a Spirit-filled moment, I declare, “God will get us to Casper. I know he will. God can do it, and I believe he will.”

We continue as normal, but the mounting anxiety correlates to the dwindling number on the dashboard. Eventually, the screen just reads ‘low fuel’, a somewhat gift, helping us not to fixate on the bad math between the miles til empty and miles til Casper signs outside the window. At some point, I turn off the air conditioner. When the children complain of being too hot I explain the situation in simple terms. I’m surprised by how effortlessly the words roll out of my mouth, “We don’t have very much gas left. We can’t afford to use any for air conditioning, but opening the windows will drag the van and make it work harder. We trust that God will get us to the gas station.”

I start praying out loud instead of just in my head.

This is not the first crisis we’ve experienced in our cobalt van, nor will it be the last, but at the moment it feels so acutely present and overpowering. I have to fight back feelings of despair in order to lean into the God-trust I so desperately want to grow in myself. I try not to, but as we pass more cars, I think, well, if we do run out of gas, Nathanael might be able to hitch a ride to get a gas can or Nathanael can walk this far and I can wait with the kids....

I believe God will get us to the gas station on the outskirts of town. Instead of finding comfort or strategy in plan B or C, I want to lean fully into plan A: God’s provision. Actually, scrap the alphabet labeling. This is the plan. As Greg Pruett says in Extreme Prayer, “Prayer is the strategy” (emphasis mine). The God who pushed aside the powerful waters of the Red Sea can certainly push our little van into town.

For the last two miles, I sing, a familiar tactic for me (see: IKEA incident). I sing the hymns I know by heart, Googling lyrics when I get stuck. I sing louder as we go up hills, and softer to listen and be sure the engine is still humming. My family joins in as they can, the children joyfully ignorant of their father’s mounting stress. When the car is parked next to the pump, tears spring to my eyes as we cheer. He got us to the pump.

…

The potential for out of gas was not a life-or-death situation or even a dangerous one in our context. We were on a well-traveled highway and would not have been in danger of storm, heat, or cold. But, in the moment, it felt overpowering. I felt helpless, in a waiting game. I didn’t know what the outcome could be. I had to work harder to keep secondary feelings of anger and annoyance from lashing out. I attempted distraction, but the agonizing unknown hovered at the edge of my mind. The only relief came from the constant mantra of I trust you, God.

What a gift. God is familiar with my particular brand of weakness. He knew this insignificant situation would fill me with worry and force my stubborn, independent self to rely on him. The God who “laid the earth’s foundation” (Job 38) loves me enough to strengthen my faith by stripping away all my earthly crutch-habits.

…

As I return from the bathroom, four kids in tow, Nathanael looks at me and laughs. “I put in a gallon over what should be max,” he says. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly right. 

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. Romans 5:3-5

Count it all joy, my brothers,when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith hproduces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. James 1:2-4

…

Five months later I am reflecting on this experience. Once again, I am running out of gas, but not the kind that goes into a car. Sleepless nights with a newborn compounded by a houseful of other needy children and I am running on empty most of the time. I ask God to take the exhaustion away. “Please, just one night where no one wakes me up. I don’t even need a full eight hours, just four or five would be sufficient!” is my equivalent to “Maybe there’s a gas station that didn’t make it into Google Maps!” But right now that isn’t the gift. I am realizing I need to stop relying on my go-to crutch-habits for strength, and instead make I trust you, God my mantra once again.

Side note to self: Stop feeling guilty by comparing my struggle to those whose struggles are harder and wounds deeper, and allow my circumstances to be a challenge for me at this moment because we’ve all been called to live out different stories. Quieting my struggle doesn’t mean I ignore it, instead, I can pray for my sisters and brothers while still working through my own issues.

I’ll still pour the coffee, sneak naps when I can, accept help from friends who bring meals, and offer to watch my children, but I won’t expect those to bring me peace. The gift is in laying my circumstances down at God’s feet knowing my gas tank is empty, but that he has an extra gallon ready to keep me going. And, on the other side, my momentary affliction will have built up faith and strength for the next time. Until then, I will (try my best) to keep quietly repeating, God, I trust you.

a non-pretentious picture of a gas station, taken during the pandemic.

Reflection Questions (take five to ten minutes right now, or schedule time for yourself to do this. It’s best to write it down, take a note in your notes app, or say it out loud).

When have you felt depleted of strength or “out of gas”?

What mantra do you need right now to get through a tough situation (maybe take a day to ruminate on this one)? How can your year-word tie into this mantra?

If you’re feeling like you are not making progress this year, take heart! Give yourself the gift of five minutes (yes, you can spare five minutes, reflect while you fold laundry, run on the treadmill, or drive) to reflect on your growth this year. It’s ok if you haven’t thought of your word in months, or if you don’t see easy progress. Taking the time to reflect will open up your eyes to see the (sometimes small) ways God is working in the background despite our human effort (or lack thereof!)