Running On Empty

Running on Empty

A gauge on my car’s dashboard tells me how close to empty its fuel tank has become. If I don’t notice the gauge, a tiny blue icon lights up when I’ve got five miles’ worth of gas left. And if the bright-blue light doesn’t trigger action on my part, a digital readout counts the miles remaining until the tank is down to fumes. I don’t believe it would be easy to run out of gas in this car, but one day I might prove myself wrong.

My body and soul don’t have the bells and whistles of my Ford, but they can still let me know when I’m running on empty. After working two sixty-hour weeks for a client, I was dangerously near the big E. I broke out in hives twice. There were other signals too. I was too tired to eat. My neck and shoulders ached. I sat through a red light and then a green one (hard to do in my city with other drivers behind you, honking). When I finally did crawl into bed, I fell asleep before I could reach over and turn out my bedside light.

My body was saying, “Enough!” And my spirit was too. My prayers became little more than whispered thank yous and desperate help mes. Because I hadn’t read my Bible, or prayed, or sung for the sheer joy of it in days, there was nothing in the tank: no truth, no hope, no beauty, no life. No deep well from which to draw. Just emptiness and bone-tired fatigue.

Then one night as I started home, I noticed that when I turned the key in my car’s ignition, the word Escape appeared. (My car is a Ford Escape.) And that night, escape was just the invitation I needed.

Life will conspire to make us run on empty. But when it does, we need to remember to escape—even just for a few stolen moments—and do those things that give us life. An early-morning walk. An intimate conversation with a friend. A meandering prayer, a quiet meal, or a slow stroll through the pages of a favorite book. These are the things that fill us up, and they are waiting, no matter the hour or the day.

You’re my place of quiet retreat; I wait for your Word to renew me.

Psalm 119:114, MSG