The low fuel light appeared out of nowhere, or had it? I stared at the dash questioning how it was possible that I was once again running on empty and then laughed out loud, thankful I was alone.

In my heart and soul, I knew full well that my fuel gauge was a very accurate reading of where I was, not just in my vehicle, but in my mind and spirit as well. Honestly, nearly depleted, and in need of fuel is a place where many of us are right now.

Normally, finding myself in a situation that might possibly leave me stranded on the side of the highway needing help from strangers wouldn’t be something I’d be thankful for. However, the last thing I needed that night was a reprimand. I could almost hear my husband and teenage sons lecturing me about the somewhat dangerous habit I had of driving under a quarter of a tank, and the fact I often forgot to check the fuel gauge prior to leaving town.

Running low on milk, bread and fuel were three things they didn’t take lightly, and their patience with me was growing thinner and thinner in my attempts to push things to the limit.

The piercing sound that only whistles at me when I have forgotten to buckle my seatbelt or when the fuel that keeps me moving forward is at a minimum seemed to be the only lecture I needed. The high-pitched sound instantly had my heart racing, its piercing warning pumping through my body. I found myself counting the miles at each exit, praying my way past every sign, every phone pole and every familiar landmark that had safely carried me home so many times before.

My mind flooded with memories from my childhood. Memories of driving north on Highway 97, and then connecting with Interstate 5 from our home in Central Oregon to my grandparents in Seattle multiple times a year. I secretly think my dad enjoyed watching me squirm as the needle on the fuel gauge dropped from a quarter of a tank to the empty.

I would beg and plead with him to stop at each exit we passed, while my mom would do her best to lovingly reassure me that we would, in fact, make it to our destination with no trouble. I vividly remember so many of those trips when I thought for sure we had been so very, very close to running out of gas, but never once did it actually happen.

Why had I worried so much as a teenager? Was it because I was so far away from home? Why was I willing to put myself in similar situations now as an adult? Why are panic and frantic two emotions I even want to have hold of me? I’ve learned over the years as I’ve found myself in similar situations that my dad had not purposefully put us in a predicament. He knew exactly where he was going and how much was needed to get there. And, now, it finally makes sense. I know how far I can go, I know that if I do get into trouble, help is close, and I also know that he was probably a lot like me — trusting in what he knew to be true, even when he couldn’t quite see it.

The roads I’ve been traveling on the past several months have me buckling up faster and faster with each passing day, completely unsure of what kind of terrain I may have to navigate, but honestly, I haven’t done a very good job of keeping myself fueled the way I know I need to.

That evening was a wake-up call as I watched the fuel pump blink on the dash in front of me all the way home. I made it home safely and the fuel left in the tank had been just enough to get me where I needed to go. I was lucky that time — and I knew it. We aren’t always given a chance to rest and refuel without completely running out, so when we are, I firmly believe we need to take it.

I don’t know if and when that will happen again, but I do know that I’m going to fill up whenever I can, I’m going to watch the gauges a little more closely, and I’m going to trust that wherever the road I’m on takes me, I’ll have more than enough to get me where I’m going.