Dad's Promise

©1992 Paul R. Rogers

Life, sometimes, can seem unfair,
and we don't understand
how God, in the midst of our troubles and woes,
could still hold us, secure, in His hand.

But though it appears He's indifferent to us
and we're subject to His every whim;
if we trust Him, we'll find that our needs are intended
to make us dependent on Him.

You see, nothing escapes God's unlimited view;
He's aware of our grief and despair.
And He promised to walk with us all the way through;
to encourage, to strengthen, to care.

So, when pressures of life try to squeeze us to death,
and replies to our questions are few;
Disappointment, confusion, and doubt overwhelm us,
and we can't decide what to do.

That's when the world says, "You've come to the end
of your rope; tie a knot and hang on."
So we dangle there, helplessly, waiting for rescue
and hoping our wait won't be long.

But our heavenly Dad says, "I'm still in control,
I'll protect you and keep you from harm."
"If you trust Me," He says, "then let go of your rope
and fall, safe, in my strong, loving arms."

My Interstate 40 Angel

If you don’t believe in angels, you may not fully appreciate this story, but it happened exactly the way I’m telling it. I’d be skeptical myself, if it hadn’t happened to me.

Back in 1976, I had flown to Memphis, Tennessee from the Virginia Peninsula to load our little Datsun station wagon full of household goods and drive it back to Newport News, where I had accepted my first full-time ministry position. I had spent most of the day loading up the wagon, and before I got all the way out of town, I had had to stop twice to fix a stuck accelerator linkage. I finally hit Interstate 40 just before sundown, heading east toward Nashville with my station wagon loaded to the ceiling and my bicycle strapped to the roof.

As the sun began to set behind me, I turned on my headlights but noticed that the dash lights were unusually dim. I had had trouble starting the car earlier, and I was afraid that perhaps the alternator wasn't charging the battery properly. I decided to keep going for fear I wouldn’t be able to restart the car if I stopped. I was barely a hundred miles into my thousand mile journey. Needless to say, I was concerned.

Not ten minutes later, I noticed the engine beginning to sputter and the lights going completely out. Almost instinctively, I reached for the key and turned it in the ignition. For some inexplicable reason, doing so caused the engine to start and the lights to come back on, but when I returned the key from the start position to the on position, everything went black. I turned the key again, and once again, everything returned to life, but only for a moment. I turned the key to the start position again and tried holding it there, but after a few minutes, my hand began to cramp.

I found a screwdriver in the glove compartment and slipping it's blade into the slot on the top of the key, I wedged it between the steering column and the dash to keep the key in the start position. For the moment, this seemed to do the trick. I had lights and the engine was running.

I prayed for an exit, hoping to find some help. Having made the trip from Memphis to Nashville many times, however, I was well aware that there was not much in the way of civilization between Jackson (which I’d long since passed) and the west side of Nashville. The sun had completely set, and I noticed that even with my makeshift key wedge, the dash lights were once again growing dimmer. I began to panic. I could feel my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest.

My headlights were now so dim that I could no longer see the road in front of me. Not even the moonlight was enough to navigate by on this very dark October night. I slowed and slipped the car over onto the shoulder of the road where the dim glow of my headlights reflected slightly against the continuous row of markers beside the road. I had visions of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a car full of my family's most prized possessions and my bicycle on the roof. I began begging God to help me.

My headlights finally faded out completely, and as they did, I whispered yet another prayer for help. Almost immediately, I noticed faint headlights in my rear view mirror. I slowed a bit, and as the car drew closer behind me, its headlights shone brightly on the reflective markers on the road’s edge. Able to see my way now, I sped up a bit, hoping to find an exit before the car passed me and I was left alone in the dark once again. I tried to maintain my speed and, almost as if by design, the car behind me did the same. Like a celestial guide it stayed right with me, lighting my path by its headlights illuminating the reflectors along the shoulder.

After what seemed like hours, I finally saw lights in the distance indicating that there might be an exit. As I approached the lights, a green interstate highway sign flashed by announcing the next exit. Hope was rekindled for a moment. As I got closer to the exit, I noticed that just off to the left of the Interstate was a small service area, complete with garage, restaurant, and motel. I headed toward the lights, up the off ramp, and prayed that God would forgive me for running the stop sign at the end of the ramp. (I was sure that I would not be able to restart the car if I stopped.)

As I turned left and crossed back over the highway on the overpass, I glanced to my right to catch a glimpse of my nighttime benefactor. To my surprise, there wasn’t a car in sight. I slowed a bit and looked up and down that long, lonely stretch of Interstate 40, but saw nothing. I looked behind me to see if the car had followed me off the highway, but there was no sign of a car anywhere. My expressway escort had simply vanished!

I turned into the drive of the service station just as they were closing the giant doors of the garage. I rolled into an empty bay and came to a stop. I asked the attendant if he could possibly charge my battery overnight, and he kindly agreed. I took my bicycle from atop the car and rode it to the motel across the street. I asked the clerk for a room and he announced that he only had one left, but that I could have it. I checked in and asked if the restaurant was still open. He said he doubted it, but that I could take my chances, which I did.

I rode my bike back across the street and parked it just as the last customers were coming out of the restaurant. I slipped in the door and was greeted by a friendly, older woman with a kind face. "We're closed!" she said, almost apologetically. I briefly explained my dilemma and told her that I'd eat leftovers if she had them. She smiled and said she'd see what they had left in the kitchen and that I could stay and eat while they cleaned up.

I finished what was one of the best home-cooked meals ever and pulled out my wallet to pay for it, but she waved me off and said that she'd already cleared out the cash register and that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to ring up my meal. I thanked her profusely and rode my bike back over to the motel.

Next morning, I woke up early, made arrangements with the Datsun dealership in Nashville to work on my car, and then called friends who lived there and asked if I could hang out with them while my car was being worked on. They picked me up, took me to their home, fed me, and entertained me for most of the day until my car was ready. Several hundred dollars later--evidently, I had fried my entire electrical system, including voltage regulator, alternator, battery, and ignition system--the car was ready to go, and so was I.

I made it the rest of the way to Virginia without incident, but I will never forget the night my "Interstate 40 Angel" guided me safely to food and shelter.

Homerun

I was only five, but I had watched the big boys play baseball and dreamed about playing with them. I had been at the ball field every day that summer, watching and dreaming. On this particular day, a day that I’ll never forget, one of the coaches noticed me and asked if I would like to have a try at bat. I MUST have been dreaming!

Scared out of my wits, but more eager than I'd ever been in my life, I slipped through the space in the fence and made my way to the batter’s box. He handed me a small, wooden bat and guided me up to the plate. I knocked the dust off my shoes, as I had see the big boys do, took my stance, such as it was, and waited for the first pitch.

Whoosh, pop!

The pitch was perfect, but I just stood there as it whizzed by. “Strike one!” growled the umpire.

Whoosh, pop! The second pitch flew by.

“Ball one” shouted the ump. "Whew!" I sighed. I wasn't sure that I could lift the bat off my shoulder. I was so paralyzed by my excitement that I just stood there like a stone statue and watched the balls zoom by.

Whoosh, pop! This time, I managed to swing, but I missed the ball by a mile!

“Stri-eek!” yelled the ump in an almost mocking tone.

Yikes! Two strikes already, but before I could react another ball whizzed by.

Whoosh, pop!

“Ball two!” said the ump.

"Get a grip!" I said to myself, fearing the humiliation that I knew I would receive if I struck out in front of all the league players.

Whoosh, pop! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!" No time to think, just swing.

“Ball three!” said the ump.

“You can do it!" I said to myself. I knew that I had to hit the next pitch.

The pitcher wound up. I stepped back, planted my foot, and lifted the bat off my shoulder. He let the ball fly. I closed my eyes, stepped into the pitch, and swung for all I was worth.

Swoosh, crack!

I actually HIT THE BALL! I couldn't believe it. I just stood there with a bewildered look on my face as the ball disappeared into the outfield grass. I hit a grounder between first and second base, but with enough speed that it kept rolling and rolling. When I stepped up to bat, the outfielders had come almost into the infield, thinking I couldn't possibly hit the ball any farther than that. The ball rolled past them. I stood there with a goofy grin on my face, basking in the moment. Then reality struck!

“Run, boy, run!” the coach screamed.

I took off running toward first base with the bat still in my hand. “Drop the bat, boy, drop the bat!” yelled the first base coach! So I dropped it, right on the first baseman's foot.

“Go on to second, go, go!” the first base coach shouted, so I took off toward second base. The centerfielder had collided with the right fielder while the ball rolled past both of them and down the slope toward the river. As they untangled themselves and began chasing the ball down the embankment, I rounded second and headed toward third.

“Come on, come on!” motioned the third base coach. I sprinted toward third as the centerfielder fished the ball out of the shallow edge of the river.

“Go on home, go on home!” yelled the coach as I rounded third and headed for home plate. I couldn't believe that I actually was about to score. My heart was pounding even faster than my feet.

The ball came flying in from the centerfielder, but only reached second base. The second baseman relayed it toward home just as I was approaching the plate. “Slide, slide!” screamed the coach. I threw my feet in front of me and hit the dirt. Clouds of dust formed all around me. I couldn’t see through the cloud of dust, but after sliding for what seemed like a mile, I felt my feet hitting the edge of home plate with a thud. Pop went the ball into the catcher’s mitt. “SAAAFE!” shouted the ump.

I laid there in the dust for a minute, catching my breath and then it hit me. I had just hit a homerun! Not a grand slam, mind you, but a homerun, nonetheless! Wow! I couldn’t believe it. Me, a little five-year old baseball wannabe, hit a home run off a peewee league pitcher.

-----

You're probably asking yourself what this story has to do with anything, right? Well, then let me cut right to the chase. I still remember that experience as vividly as the day it actually happened, even though no one has ever been able to verify that it actually did happen. Maybe it was just a dream I had, but either way, the impact it has had on me is very real. I still remember the feelings I had as I stood there, petrified, waiting for that first pitch. I also remember how it felt to run the bases and the heart-pounding sensation of racing to beat the ball to home plate. But the BEST feeling was when I first realized that I had hit a homer and saw and heard all the other players and coaches cheering for me. Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I think about that experience and it makes me believe that I can do almost anything.

It doesn't much matter whether or not this story is true. What matters is that I never forget those feelings. Why? Because even though I'm all grown up now, I still experience paralyzing fear and discouragement. Remembering that experience helps me to view negative circumstances in a more positive light. If all those positive and wonderful feelings can be stirred in me from the mere remembrance of a perceived experience, imagine what could happen if I actually believed the truth about me? It's mind boggling.

The fact that my memory of this childhood story elicits such positive feelings in me tells me that these feelings are likely more the product of my will than of my intellect. In other words, what matters most is not whether or not I actually hit the homerun, but that I believe that I did or could. My emotions respond to my perception of an event or circumstance, regardless of whether or not it actually is real. Do you understand the true significance of this?

Dr. Maxwell Maltz wrote several books in the 60s on the subject of "Psycho Cybernetics." As I recall, the basic premise of this principle was that the human nervous system cannot discern the difference between real and imagined experiences. For example, if you're walking in the woods and hear or see something that you believe is a bear, your central nervous system responds to your perception, even if what you saw or heard turns out to be merely a squirrel or another hiker. If this principle is true, and I happen to believe that it is, then imagine the power it gives us over our worst feelings.

Upon closer examination, the theory of Psycho Cybernetics sounds very much like one of my favorite verses from the Bible. "For as he thinks in his heart, so is he." (Psalm 23:7a) Even though truth is not relative, our perception of it may be. That's why it's so important that we accept and believe what God says. That, to me, is the ultimate, undisputable truth. Dr. Maltz just helped me to understand that I have the power to overrule my negative feelings by replacing negative thoughts with positive ones. If I think I'm a loser, you can bet I'm going to live up (or down?) to my own expectations and act like a loser. If, on the other hand, I believe what God says about me, I will ultimately act accordingly. The only real effort I had to put into my homerun experience was to keep running until I reached home plate. I had to believe that I could make it or I would have stopped short.

Simply believing something doesn't immediately change how we feel about it, but if we act in faith on the facts of God's Word, our feelings will inevitably follow.

Remember this principle the next time you're at bat!