Grace in Wilderness

Lee was great at reminding me to fill up the gas tank. I like to see how far I can go until the light comes on.

A quarter tank feels like more than enough. I tell myself I will go to the gas station tomorrow or when it’s more convenient. Lee would roll his eyes if he got in the car and saw the gauge hovering just above empty.

My favorite surprise was the mornings I forgot to fill up the night before a long day. I would rush outside already calculating which gas station I would need to stop at, slightly annoyed with myself for cutting it so close. Then I would turn the key and see it. Full tank. At some point after I had fallen asleep, he had taken my car and filled the tank with gas. He did not announce it. He did not lecture me. He just made sure I would not start my day running on fumes.

That was the kind of husband he was. He noticed what I ignored. He filled what was nearly empty before I stalled out. He loved me in ways that made my life steadier than I understood at the time.

Now Lee is not here to top off my tank. Now it is up to me. I have to look at the gauge and choose to stop before I am depleted. Widowhood has a way of revealing how much was being carried for you without your realizing it.

But here is what I am learning. Even though Lee is no longer the one constantly filling my tank, I am not unseen.

El Roi, the One who sees, meets me in the moments when I am pushing past my limits, convincing myself I can go a little farther. He meets me when grief has drained more than I planned to give. He meets me before collapse.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” | Matthew 11:28

Rest is not something I earn by proving how capable I am. It is an invitation extended long before I am stranded on the side of the road.

Lee taught me that love pays attention. He taught me that care is often quiet and practical. He taught me that filling what is close to being empty is wiser than waiting for it to run out completely.

Maybe what he practiced in small, ordinary ways was shaping my understanding of something eternal. The God who formed me is not impressed by how long I can run on fumes. He restores what is low. He strengthens what is weak. He invites me to seek rest long before I fall apart.

The tank does not have to be empty to deserve filling.

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