Running on Empty
Aug 2nd, 2010 Posted in Prayer, Provision | 4 comments »When I was a very young Christian, a friend flew up to Alaska to visit and I drove him up to Denali so he could hike and camp for a few days.
Saturday, after work, I drove up to get him, and about three-quarters of the way up I realized I was going to have buy gas before I got back home. I saw an open station, but didn’t stop, thinking that if I waited for the return trip and bought gas closer to Anchorage it would cost less.
As I got closer to the park, I realized my mistake. It was only nine but it had already started to get dark. It hit me that summer was over. The tourists were gone and gas stations weren’t going to be open late. Denali was about four hours away from where I lived and the road is lonely. Maybe every fifty miles or so a house/gift shop/restaurant/gas station/shower combo sits on the side of the road. And that night, as I neared the park, every one of those little stations was zipped shut.
I began to pray for an open station.
I picked up my friend and told him we were probably going to run out of gas. He was so angry. He’d been sleeping in the rain for four days, he was cold and miserable, and he wanted to get back to Anchorage to a warm bed.
I prayed more earnestly for a gas station. My friend wasn’t a Christian. None of my friends were. They all thought I was a wacko. And there was John, so mad, saying, “I cannot believe you are so stupid. How could you not buy gas?”
John was my older brother’s best friend and we’d known each other for years, so he felt free to call me a little idiot. I didn’t mind that at all. What I minded was that he was going to tell my brother and all our friends what a bonehead I was and they would laugh and say, “Well, what do you expect from Sally? She’s turned into some kind of religious wacko. She’s lost her mind. You can’t trust her for anything anymore.” They, the brilliant ones, were sitting around smoking pot and smoking coke, and seeing everything clearly, while I was a delusional wacko. They all still liked me alright in a kind of “isn’t she cute, we’ll pat her on the head and wait for her to come to her senses” kind of way. But I was the butt of the jokes. I didn’t mind if the jabs were undeserved, but I didn’t like to really do stupid things because I didn’t like to fuel their disdain for Christians.
John and I left Denali with a quarter of a tank—him cursing, me praying.
Night fell.
There were no other cars on the road.
Every station we passed was closed.
The needle got closer and closer to empty.
When the needle was on E we saw a gift shop/gas station combo and pulled in. Someone lived upstairs, in the top story of a log cabin. We knocked, hoping the guy would have mercy on us. It was close to midnight. No one answered.
We got back into the car and I said, “Here are our choices: We can park here, sleep in the car, and get gas in the morning, or we can pray and keep driving. With the needle on E we can go another forty miles, maybe. If we keep going and we don’t find a station, we’ll have to sleep on the side of the road and hitchhike in the morning. Some trucker will eventually come by and pick us up.”
John said, “What’s coming up in the next forty mile?”
“Nothing but more of the same.”
“Then why would you even suggest we keep going? What do you know? What do you think God has told you.”
I said, “I don’t know anything. I don’t think there are any gas stations open between here and Anchorage at this time of night. But I’ve been praying for gas for the last several hours and if we park here and don’t keep going I’ll never know if God was going to answer my prayers.”
John said, “OK. You pray, since you’re the one who knows God, and then we’ll drive on.”
“And you won’t curse me out if we run out of gas and have to hitchhike in the morning?”
“I won’t be mad.”
So I asked God to give us gas so we could get home because I wanted to go to church the next day and John wanted a comfortable bed. But I told him we’d praise him even if we ran out of gas and had to sleep on the side of the road.
John gave an “amen” and we drove away.
We went about thirty miles and were just about to the top of a hill when the car chugged and sputtered and John, who was driving, started to pull off the road.
“See if we can make the top of the hill, ” I said. “We might as well coast down the other side. Go as far as we can.”
We got to the top of the hill, leaning forward, urging the car on. We crested the hill and looked down, and at the bottom of the hill was a Chevron station, in the middle of nowhere, all lit up and looking like the Promised Land.
We coasted in to find a high school kid in the bay working on his car.
I said, “You sure are an answer to prayer. Our tank is bone dry.”
“You’re lucky, then,” he answered. “Nobody’s open between here and Anchorage. We all switched to winter hours two weeks ago. I closed up myself at nine. My girlfriend got sick and cancelled our date, so I came back to work on my car.”
Variations of this story have been repeated in my life so many times. If I pray and then keep going—if I head out onto the highway instead of staying in the safe parking lot—God always answers. He never answers as early as I want him to. He always makes me go past E and I’m usually sweating it and thinking there is no way we can keep going. “I’m about to die down here, Lord. Can you hear me? I can’t do this anymore.” But I always find that I can do it for several more miles, and God always answers at the perfect time.




