In the states, we're surrounded by safety nets, both visible and invisible. Traffic cops patrol for the streets watching for speeding, rolling stops, and ignored traffic lights. Any place with public access has layers upon layers of safety, in the literal sense of handrails and ramps, and the figurative sense of threatened lawsuits. If you do get hurt, a quick call to 911 will get you police, EMTs, and firefighters in fairly short order. Imagine if all that disappeared.
Here, there are no handrails. There are no guardrails on the mountain roads, and no traffic lights on the corners. Traffic laws are more guidelines than actual rules, and if you're in an accident, you can call for help but who knows when (if!) it will get there, or what quality of medical attention you'll receive. Traffic does not grant ambulances the right of way, either. If you run into trouble, the police may help you, or they may not.
The other night I was driving home on my scooter. The weather had been iffy all day, and about halfway across town (normally a 30-minute drive) the heavens opened. There are no street lights. The stars here are amazing because there is no light pollution to get in their way, but it also makes for very dark drives once the sun goes down. So. The skies unleash their fury, and I am soaked through almost instantly. Visibility decreases to about four feet, and I can't see the road because my headlight is reflecting off the sheeting rain. The road I take curves around the side of a hill, with a deep gutter on once side and a sheer drop of anything from 3 to 30 feet on the other, and I can't really see far enough to tell where I am in the road. I slow to about 3 mi/hr, just enough to keep the scooter upright, and every once in a while the jittering of my headlamp reflects off the side of the hill, letting me know I haven't strayed too far one way or the other. My glasses are rain-spattered and fogging from my breath, and when I try to wipe them clean, they simply smear. It is with intense relief that I greet the lights and noise of the intersection that marks the beginning of a safer road. Finally, as I turn up the final path to my home, the rain stops and the skies clear.
As I squelched up the stairs in my water-filled Converse, streaming water from head to toe and wondering if this was what hypothermia felt like, I had to marvel at my experience. It took me over an hour to travel the five miles across town. I was sopping wet, and fairly certain I'd never been so scared in my entire life. And yet, that little trip across town was a reminder for me that even in this midst of this place so completely devoid of safety nets, I can still count on the ultimate safety net: God is the one who brought me here, and he is able to protect me. Driving down that road in the dry daytime I still marvel that I survived. There is no reason I should have. I just kept moving forward, trusting that the road would still be under my tires, and trusting that the God of the universe was able to keep me on a road I couldn't see.
Now, as I continue to move forward, I hold to that same faith. I can't see very far down this road God has put me on. I don't know what my life will look like in two, five, or ten years. For that matter, I don't even know what my life will look like six months from now! But I trust that the same God who kept that road under my tires one very wet March night will continue to be faithful and fulfill his purpose for me.
Here, there are no handrails. There are no guardrails on the mountain roads, and no traffic lights on the corners. Traffic laws are more guidelines than actual rules, and if you're in an accident, you can call for help but who knows when (if!) it will get there, or what quality of medical attention you'll receive. Traffic does not grant ambulances the right of way, either. If you run into trouble, the police may help you, or they may not.
The other night I was driving home on my scooter. The weather had been iffy all day, and about halfway across town (normally a 30-minute drive) the heavens opened. There are no street lights. The stars here are amazing because there is no light pollution to get in their way, but it also makes for very dark drives once the sun goes down. So. The skies unleash their fury, and I am soaked through almost instantly. Visibility decreases to about four feet, and I can't see the road because my headlight is reflecting off the sheeting rain. The road I take curves around the side of a hill, with a deep gutter on once side and a sheer drop of anything from 3 to 30 feet on the other, and I can't really see far enough to tell where I am in the road. I slow to about 3 mi/hr, just enough to keep the scooter upright, and every once in a while the jittering of my headlamp reflects off the side of the hill, letting me know I haven't strayed too far one way or the other. My glasses are rain-spattered and fogging from my breath, and when I try to wipe them clean, they simply smear. It is with intense relief that I greet the lights and noise of the intersection that marks the beginning of a safer road. Finally, as I turn up the final path to my home, the rain stops and the skies clear.
As I squelched up the stairs in my water-filled Converse, streaming water from head to toe and wondering if this was what hypothermia felt like, I had to marvel at my experience. It took me over an hour to travel the five miles across town. I was sopping wet, and fairly certain I'd never been so scared in my entire life. And yet, that little trip across town was a reminder for me that even in this midst of this place so completely devoid of safety nets, I can still count on the ultimate safety net: God is the one who brought me here, and he is able to protect me. Driving down that road in the dry daytime I still marvel that I survived. There is no reason I should have. I just kept moving forward, trusting that the road would still be under my tires, and trusting that the God of the universe was able to keep me on a road I couldn't see.
Now, as I continue to move forward, I hold to that same faith. I can't see very far down this road God has put me on. I don't know what my life will look like in two, five, or ten years. For that matter, I don't even know what my life will look like six months from now! But I trust that the same God who kept that road under my tires one very wet March night will continue to be faithful and fulfill his purpose for me.
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