Time to Turn Off the Warning Light

Some warning lights are internal.

The other night, I went to get into my car.

Check engine light.

Again.

I had planned to run to the store while my daughter was on her way home from school, but when that light came on, I changed my plans. I didn't really need to go anywhere. My battery was already scheduled to be replaced on Friday, and I could stay home until then.

Problem solved.

Or at least postponed.

Later that night, I found myself thinking about the car again. I was frustrated. Fed up, really.

This wasn't the experience I thought I was buying when I bought a newer vehicle.

I like newer cars for a reason.

Reliability.

Warranty.

Backup.

I want to know that if something goes wrong, there is a process. Someone to call.

Somewhere to take it. Something underneath me besides, Well, let's hope for the best.

Then, around 4:30 the next morning, life interrupted my carefully constructed plan to simply not drive until Friday.

My daughter woke up with a swollen eye.

Suddenly, staying home wasn't necessarily an option.

And here's the part that got me.

I wasn't particularly afraid for my daughter.

I was concerned, of course. I'm her mother. But somewhere inside of me, I knew she was going to be okay. I knew I would get her where she needed to go. More than that, I had this quiet confidence:

God's got her.

But the car?

I was worried about the car.

Would it start?

Would it get us to the doctor?

Would it get us back home?

And sitting in the doctor's office—yes, we made it—I found myself asking a question that was much bigger than the check-engine light:

I know God's got her. Why can't I trust Him with me?

Except that question didn't quite fit.

Because I do trust God with me.

I've trusted Him with my finances when the numbers said I shouldn't have had peace. I've trusted Him with my health. I've trusted Him with my child. I am extremely confident in God's love for me.

So why does uncertainty about a vehicle unnerve me so deeply?

Some people might call that a flaw in my faith.

I don't.

But I do think it's worth examining.

Because when something consistently produces a reaction in me that seems disproportionate to the circumstances, I've learned there is usually something underneath it.

So I started remembering.

I've had some experiences with cars.

My first accident happened when I was in high school. I backed up too quickly and somehow ended up in a field. Nobody was hurt. The car was.

There was another accident in high school while I was following members of a community choir to a church where we were supposed to sing.

Then there was an accident on the interstate while I was traveling back to college. Someone was speeding and weaving through traffic, an accident happened ahead of me, the car in front of me slammed on brakes, and I hit it. Days later, I developed a hematoma that frightened me enough to think I might need a medical procedure. Thankfully, it resolved on its own.

Years later, a tire blew while I was driving from North Carolina to Virginia.

I've slid on ice, overcorrected trying to avoid oncoming traffic, and hit a guardrail.

I've had enough experiences with vehicles to know that things can go wrong quickly.

But something else occurred to me as I thought about those experiences.

I wasn't alone.

Not necessarily physically—but I had backup.

When that tire blew, the person I was dating was with me. He knew what to do.

I didn't.

And I was okay with that.

My father was alive during those years. If something happened and there was a financial burden, Mama and Daddy helped.

There was an assumption underneath my life then that I hadn't recognized until now:

If something happens, somebody will help me.

Maybe that is what security felt like.

The person who was with me when that tire blew was more than someone who happened to know about cars. We were together for years. Somewhere along the way, what may have begun as partnership became dependence.

I became too dependent upon him.

I made extreme choices trying to hold on to that relationship. A relationship that dishonored me until, one day, I'd had enough.

And I made myself a promise:

I will never be dependent on a man again.

That promise made sense.

It protected the woman who made it.

But I've realized something:

Promises born from pain can become rules we continue obeying long after the emergency is over.

I kept my promise.

Perhaps too well.

Because I didn't move from dependence into partnership.

I moved toward self-sufficiency.

And somewhere in that correction, I eventually found myself in another relationship where dependence existed again—except this time, it wasn't mine.

I had overcorrected.

I had learned how not to need someone.

What I hadn't fully understood was that partnership and dependence are not the same thing.

Let me be clear.

I do not want dependence.

I don't want another human being to become responsible for my ability to stand; and I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's ability to stand. I don't want someone else holding the keys to my security. I don't want to need another person in order to function.

What I want is partnership.

And I understand that differently now.

Partnership is two people who can stand on their own choosing to stand together.

Sometimes I know what to do.

Sometimes you know what to do.

Sometimes I've got us.

Sometimes you've got us.

Neither person has to become helpless for the other to be helpful.

Maybe being taken care of doesn't mean surrendering my independence.

Maybe sometimes it simply means:

I don't always have to be the one who knows what to do.

Most of the time, when life goes wrong, I figure it out.

I am intelligent. I am resourceful. Give me a problem and I will ask questions, research what I don't know, and generally find my way through it.

Cars are different.

I don't understand them particularly well.

I don't always know if what I'm being told is accurate. I don't know enough to immediately recognize what's serious and what's minor. I don't necessarily know whether a price is reasonable or whether I'm being taken advantage of.

In this one area, “I'll figure it out” doesn't immediately make me feel safe.

And there are moments when I wish I had the kind of partnership where I could look to the passenger's seat when the check-engine light comes on and say, You know more about this than I do. Can you handle this one?

Not because I need someone to rescue me.

Because sometimes it would be nice not to have to know.

Suddenly, I understand something else about myself.

When I can't find security in a person, I build systems for it.

Newer vehicle.

Warranty.

Coverage.

Plans.

Money.

Knowledge.

Backup.

If something goes wrong, I want to know what happens next.

And suddenly, even my thoughts about my next vehicle look a little different.

Am I simply looking for a reliable vehicle?

Or am I trying to rebuild a security system that this vehicle disrupted?

Because that's what a newer vehicle with a warranty represented to me. Not a guarantee that nothing would ever go wrong, but a structure designed to catch me when something did.

And now that structure doesn't feel as secure as I expected it to.

That bothers me.

A lot.

But perhaps the car isn't the problem I'm actually trying to solve.

Perhaps the car simply exposed it.

Because I spent years making sure I would never be dependent on another person again.

And that raises an uncomfortable question for someone who believes as deeply as I do:

What happens when faith itself requires dependence?

Not dependence on a human.

Dependence on God.

I don't mean becoming passive. I don't mean abandoning wisdom, responsibility, preparation, or good judgment.

I mean acknowledging that there will always be things I cannot control.

Things I cannot predict.

Things I do not understand.

Things I cannot fix.

My systems can't change that.

A warranty can create protection.

Money can create options.

Knowledge can help me make better decisions.

Planning can reduce risk.

Partnership can mean I don't have to carry everything alone.

Those things matter.

But none of them can give me certainty.

And maybe that's what I've been asking them to do.

When I look backward, the evidence is already there.

The accidents happened.

The tire blew.

I hit the guardrail.

Things went wrong.

And care was still there.

Sometimes it looked like Daddy.

Sometimes Mama.

Sometimes it looked like another person knowing what to do when I didn't.

God's care didn't always show up as prevention.

Sometimes it showed up right in the middle of the thing I would have preferred never happened.

I know God has me.

That isn't what I discovered sitting in the doctor's office.

What I'm discovering is something about me.

I build systems for security.

I like plans. I like knowing what happens next. I like warranties, backup plans, enough money in the account, and knowing who to call when something goes wrong.

There is wisdom in that.

I don't intend to stop planning.

I don't intend to stop asking questions.

And I'm certainly not going to stop wanting a reliable car.

But I'm beginning to recognize the difference between preparing myself for uncertainty and trying to eliminate it.

Maybe that's what this check-engine light has been exposing.

It wasn't revealing that I don't trust God.

It was revealing how hard I've worked to make sure I never again have to depend on something—or someone—I cannot rely on.

And maybe that's why this particular kind of uncertainty gets under my skin.

My systems make me prepared.

They give me options.

They give me backup.

They can even make me feel safe.

But they cannot promise me that nothing will go wrong.

Maybe security isn't knowing that I've accounted for every possibility.

Maybe it's knowing that when I encounter the possibility I didn't account for, I don't always have to be the one who knows what to do.

And maybe learning to be okay with that isn't dependence after all.

Maybe it's growth.

But this reflection isn't only about my check-engine light.

We all build systems.

Some of them are practical. Some are emotional. Some look like boundaries, independence, preparation, control, distance, achievement, or always having a backup plan.

And some of those systems were built because, at one point, we needed them.

The question is whether we still do.

What promise did you make to yourself when you were hurting that you may still be living by today?

What did that promise protect you from then?

And what might it be preventing you from experiencing now?

Maybe the invitation isn't to tear down every system that has helped us feel safe.

Maybe it's simply to examine what we've built—and ask whether it is still serving who we are becoming.

Because sometimes the emergency ends long before our internal warning lights turn off.

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 Welcome to the Journey.