I left the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference—inspired, tired and already behind.

The next morning, I was scheduled to lead a mentor development workshop at a local church. But when my flight home was delayed three hours, everything unraveled. Supplies weren’t prepped, my materials weren’t organized, and my body felt like it was running on empty. I stared at my to-do list late that night, tempted to power through. But lately, the Lord had been convicting me: Take better care of yourself. Trust Me with your limits.

So instead of pushing past exhaustion, I did something risky—I followed Jesus into rest.

The next morning, the pressure returned the minute I opened my eyes. So much to do. But before diving in, I paused to meet with Jesus. My reading “just happened” to be from the Sermon on the Mount. One verse stood out like a banner over the chaos:
“Do not be anxious… your heavenly Father knows what you need.”
I clung to that truth, especially with another writing trip to Chicago looming on the horizon.

After my quiet time, I tossed supplies into the back of the car—my husband’s old one, which I recently inherited—and took off for the church. Moments later, the skies opened. A torrential downpour began, and lightning cracked across the sky. The wipers on high barely carved out seconds of visibility. As I gripped the steering wheel, I regretted not driving to the church before my quiet time.

And then I saw it.
The gas gauge.
Below empty.

If I had noticed at home, I would’ve taken Jim’s car. But now, a couple miles down the road, turning back wasn’t an option.

With less than twenty minutes to get to the church, panic hit hard. What if I run out of gas? What if the car dies in the middle of an intersection? What if I can’t make it in time to teach?

I started praying out loud:
“Please help me, Lord. Please!”
And into that storm, I heard the verse again:
“Do not be anxious… your Father knows what you need.”

Relief surged as I spotted a gas station. I exhaled, pulled in—and then noticed a man standing by his car.

“The electricity’s out,” he said. “No gas here.”
The station across the street was out too.

I had no idea what to do, so I called Jim. Normally, he would’ve rescued me. But after eight weeks of radiation treatments, he was fatigued.

“You’ll have to try the next station,” he said. “It’s about a half mile up the road.”

I’d never noticed a next station. But I had no choice. I climbed into the car and whispered,
“Okay, Lord. You know what I need.”

I prayed every inch of that road, my white-knuckled grip softening with every tenth of a mile I handed over to Him. Fear gave way to peace, then peace to trust.

And finally—joy.

There it was. A gas station ahead. And this time, the lights were on.

I laughed out loud as I pulled in. The tank may have been running on fumes, but I was running on faith. God provided—again.

And the sweetest irony? That morning, I was sharing a message on the importance of making time with God a priority.

Turns out, I didn’t only prepare a talk. I lived it.
And that story—the one I almost missed by trying to push through—was exactly what I needed to begin.