Running On Fumes

There was a season of my life when I simply couldn't keep up.

As a husband, father, and lead pastor, the demands felt relentless. Everywhere I turned, someone needed something from me. There were sermons to write, people to care for, problems to solve, and a family I deeply loved and wanted to be fully present for.

No matter how much I gave, it never seemed to be enough.

The truth is, that feeling wasn't new. For as long as I could remember, I carried this nagging sense that I wasn't enough. Not productive enough. Not successful enough. Not spiritual enough. Just... not enough.

So I did what I'd always done. I worked harder. I pushed longer. I tried harder. I gave more. And for a while, it worked. At least on the surface.

People praised my dedication. Things got accomplished. Responsibilities were met. But beneath it all, something was slowly breaking. You can only run on fumes for so long before the engine starts to fail.

Eventually, I found myself in a place where I had nothing left to give. Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. The cracks were becoming impossible to ignore.

I knew I couldn't continue the way I was living, so I pulled away for a few days of silence and solitude on Lopez Island. I wasn't looking for a vacation. I was looking for God.

One morning I found myself sitting alone at the kitchen table of the retreat house. Outside the windows, the waters of Puget Sound were dark and restless beneath a stormy sky. It felt strangely fitting. That's exactly what was happening inside me.

With my eyes closed and my hands resting open in my lap, I prayed the only prayer I knew how to pray.

"Lord, help."

Then the words kept coming.

"Why does it feel like everything is falling apart? I'm giving everything I've got. I'm trying so hard. Why is it never enough?"

I sat quietly.

And then something happened that I still struggle to explain. The response came with a clarity that was almost audible. Knowing I'm a bit of a gearhead, God spoke through a picture.

"Mike, you're like an engine that was made to run on My love and My love alone. But you keep stopping at every other gas station along the way trying to fill yourself up. Then you wonder why you're not running right."

The words cut straight through me. Because they were true. I had been trying to fuel my soul with the approval of other people. I wanted to be a good husband. A good father. A good pastor. I wanted people to be happy with me. I wanted to feel successful. I wanted to know that I mattered.

The problem was that every time I thought I'd finally arrived, the tank was empty again. There was always another expectation. Another criticism. Another demand. Another reminder that I still wasn't enough.

Sitting there at that table, I realized I had been asking people and circumstances to provide something they could never give me. I was looking for acceptance. For worth. For love. For rest. But my heart wasn't designed to run on any of those things. It was designed to run on God's love. And God's love alone.

As I sat there absorbing that truth, another picture came.

"Mike, you're like a trailer. You keep hitching yourself to other people. But not only can they not pull your weight, they can never take you where you need to go. Only I can do that."

By then, I knew exactly what God was putting His finger on.

My striving. My people-pleasing. My need to control outcomes. My tendency to look to everyone and everything around me for what only He could provide.

I had spent years trying to carry burdens I was never meant to carry. Years trying to prove something that never needed proving. Years trying to earn what had already been freely given.

That retreat didn't magically fix everything. I didn't walk away completely healed. The road that followed involved counseling, hard conversations, deeper surrender, and learning how to live differently. But something changed that day. Something fundamental.

For the first time, I could see what had been driving me. And for the first time, I began learning what it meant to live from God's love rather than for it. A few months later, I bought a small Jerry can flask and set it on my desk. Most people probably thought it was just a decoration. For me, it became a reminder.

A reminder of what fuels my soul.

A reminder that I don't have to earn God's affection.

A reminder that my value isn't rooted in what I accomplish, produce, fix, or achieve.

And whenever I catch myself drifting back toward striving, that little Jerry can calls me back to the same truth God spoke to me on Lopez Island years ago:

Your heart was made to run on My love.

Everything else will eventually leave you empty.