You Think You Know . . .
The other day I was trying to explain to the kids what it was like growing up without the internet, without smart phones, without knowing. And it was hard to explain.
I described the time when I had to do a paper on a country and I chose the tiny African nation of Gabon. I was in 6th grade, I think. All I had to work with, really, was the musty encyclopedia in my school library. I found out that there is not a lot of information about Gabon in the encyclopedia.
Then we went to my aunt and uncle’s house. This uncle was always up on the latest thing and I remember standing in his computer room – this was a thing back then, to have a room with a giant, special desk that had an enormous computer monitor on it, and a keyboard with its own shelf that slid in and out like a drawer, and a “tower,” and a skyscraper of CDs , and an assortment of hand-labeled “discs” – yes, I clearly remember standing there in his computer room as he introduced a grand new invention called the internet. He described it to my dad with intriguing words such as “world wide web” and “surfing” and “google.” I knew about google. It is the number with 100 zeros. A useful fact when you want to impress your 6th grade peers.
“Jenny, aren’t you trying to find information for your paper?” my dad asked.
“Yeah,” I said dejectedly. I didn’t really want to bring up that disaster.
“Watch this!” my uncle grinned proudly.
And he typed something into the keyboard. Within a few minutes I was holding a thick stack of papers, printed with a long list of facts about Gabon. Whoa! Cool!
Then I told my kids what it was like to carry not a phone, but a stack of quarters in my pocket. That way, when volleyball practice was over, I could go to the grimy school payphone, insert a quarter, and call my parents.
“I’m ready,” I would say.
“Ok, we’re coming.”
And I would stand there in my uniform with my backpack and my gym bag and wait for my dad to come pick me up in front of everybody in the bright yellow Ford Festiva with the red stripe on the side that ended in a splatter. Kind of like ketchup. Or blood. He had asked for the cheapest car on the lot . . . To my surprise, though, my friends thought that car was cool.
I tried to tell my kids that back then there was no such thing as texting. In fact, we didn’t even know who was calling when the phone rang. And if it was a friend, well, you had to talk right there in the kitchen because the phone was attached to the wall. The best you could do was stretch the cord around the corner if you wanted some privacy.
I explained that if we went out, we could not bring our phone. If we wanted to know how to get somewhere, my mom would have to spread out the big map on her lap in the passenger seat, and she and my dad would try to figure out where to go. I remember them “discussing” a fork in the road that they had missed. I sat in the back seat trying to discern why anyone would put a fork in the road. Wouldn’t that puncture a tire? And it seemed an awfully small thing to use as a directional aid. I could understand how they missed it! I strained my neck towards the window and scanned the road for the all-important utensil. But I missed it too. We never did find it. But we did spend a good part of the night driving on winding country roads before we gave up and went home.
Yes, things were different back then. I say “back then” even though I do not consider myself old by any estimation. Still, in the span of my life thus far the world has become an entirely different place. Now, it seems, we know everything. With the internet in our pockets, we can see what is happening on the other side of the globe. We can purchase anything we want and know when it will be on our doorstep. We can predict a snowstorm or a hurricane. We can find the answer to almost any question. We can get what we want and we can get it fast. Everything is literally at our fingertips. It seems that now, more than ever before, we can be in control. We can know.
Except that we can’t.
When our family secured all our things once again to travel south from Independence, California, we thought we knew and we thought we had everything under control. Our next site was booked. We had chosen a beautiful spot on a lake where we would spend Christmas. We had looked at the satellite image of the campground so we knew that the lake was blue, that palm trees dotted the landscape, and that the weather, of course, was sunny. It was southern California, after all.
Here we were, sitting in the van, headed to our winter paradise. We could see our progress south on our phone maps. We munched lunch and tackled schoolwork as we headed down the highway, excited to arrive and set up before dinner. Then we could take life easy and enjoy a long Christmas break.
Daniel, who sits in the back of our large van, made a timid announcement: “Um, Dad, there is a weird sound back here.”
I remembered the last time Daniel had heard a “weird sound.” That time the stabilizer on our hitch had been dragging on the road. Thankfully, it was raining that day and we didn’t start a fire. Thankfully, it was an easy adjustment before we were on our way again.
And so, we thought we knew. Some minor inconvenience and a slight delay was all this was.
I looked in the sideview mirror. “Honey, the back tire is smoking.”
We stopped. Paul got out and we all choked on the acrid smell.
“It’s the brakes,” Paul said as he got back into the van.
We had recently replaced the brake pads and rotors. According to the internet, this smoke could be normal for a van with new pads that was pulling a trailer up and down hills all day. It would wear off! You see, we still thought we knew.
But we didn’t know, and it didn’t wear off. As we drove down the highway the brakes continued to smoke and to smell as I scrolled the internet for answers. Before long, we were forced to pull over again. The only spot in this desolate town – a town that sat nestled beside a large federal penitentiary – was a sandy shoulder in front of a fenced lot full of rusty buses, trucks, and cars that had definitely seen better days.
We all got out of the van and were greeted by the furious barking of at least 48 junkyard dogs. These dogs were to provide background noise for the entirety of our stay on this little spit, a stay which, I was sure, would not be very long. Cars whizzed by us on the highway, and each time they did a cloud of dust would send us all into a fit of coughing, rubbing our eyes, and flailing our arms.
Paul started taking everything apart, but then he realized he needed his tool bag. Unfortunately, his tool bag was buried in the back of the van beneath a large accumulation of things we have collected on the road. Things like life jackets, sleds, snorkeling sets, inflatable stand-up-paddleboards, oars, a pair of crutches, skim boards, fishing rods, fishing bags, fishing boxes, fishing waders, a bin of scrap wood, schoolbooks, and a large bag containing our dirty laundry. All of this had to be removed from the van and set out on display for all passersby to gawk at.
When all of our stuff was out on the ground and the back wheel was off the van along with a pile of parts, we realized that we didn’t know. Our plans and expectations for the day were ruined. We had no control over the fact that we were here, precisely where we didn’t want to be. We didn’t know for sure what was wrong, although we suspected the caliper. If it was the caliper, we didn’t have the confidence to bleed the brake fluid in order to fix it. Besides, we didn’t have a new caliper anyway.
We didn’t know how we were going to get out of this. We couldn’t stay here, and we couldn’t leave. By this time, the local repair shops were closing for the day.
We searched our phones for a mobile repair service and finally found one that was willing to help us. But I guess they had some other stuff to do first, because by the time they arrived we had been waiting at this spot for five hours. Five hours of dust blowing. Five hours of dogs barking. Five hours of stomachs growling. Five hours of boredom. We did break up the monotony of the wait, though, by setting up our camp chairs and doing a chemistry lesson. Ah, homeschool. Where you are never home from school . . .
When the repair men arrived, the sun had set and we all were wearing headlamps. The problem was, indeed, the caliper, and they fixed it fairly quickly. After they finished working, we wrote them a check and drove off through the night. We stopped to grab some pizza and ate it in the car as we continued our journey south.
When we arrived at our campground, Joe and I got out of the van to help Paul pull into our site. The dim light from the streetlamps revealed enough for me to begin to suspect that this was not going to be the paradise we had envisioned. As I walked backwards in the dark, motioning with my hand as the trailer backed up in front of me, I tried not to trip over the wires and broken pipes that stuck up out of the ground. My feet squished in soggy sand. Paul lined up the trailer with the concrete pad that was so tiny and so buckled that I wondered how the campground website could actually advertise it as an amenity.
We tried to be quiet since it was so late, but we noticed with relief that in the rows of sites around us we only had one other neighbor. One neighbor and two picnic tables. The boys lifted one of the picnic tables and placed it over some of the pipes and wires on our site. The table almost fell to pieces, but it held together just enough for us to cover up some of the ugly mess.
We continued our setup process in a whispered hush. It was 1 o’clock in the morning by the time we crashed into our beds, too tired to care where we were.
In the morning, we felt better. Yesterday had been a tough day, and the campground was a little grungy, but we were safe, the van was fixed, and we could still enjoy our sunny Christmas!
Paul and I decided to take a bike ride to check out the lake. The lake where we planned to relax in the sand, walk the shores, and paddle to our hearts’ content. The lake that was . . . lined with “no trespassing” signs? We pedaled past sign after sign, barring us from the lake’s edge. The edge that was so far away we could barely see it. It was obvious that the lake had once been much higher, but had dried up to reveal a vast, flat expanse of salt.
Yes, salt. For this lake was the Salton Sea. We knew it would be salty, but we didn’t know much else. We didn’t know it would be too salty for us to wade in or swim in or paddle in. We didn’t know that it wasn’t really even safe to walk the shores because of the arsenic in the dust that blew over the empty lakebed.
(Watch this video to learn more about the Salton Sea!)
We wheeled back to the trailer silently. What next?
Well, sickness was next. Everybody got sick.
And then the rain came. The sparse patch of palm trees that rose out of the brown expanse of desert dripped with rain even as our noses dripped inside.
Then we got the news. During our stay here I had an MRI – part of my yearly routine to monitor my brain tumor. When we finally heard back from the radiologist, we found out that the tumor had grown significantly. We were suddenly thrust back into the agony of another decision. Was it time to treat it or should we keep waiting and watching? Should we go with radiation or another surgery? Should we stay with my current doctor or find a new one who had more experience with this type of tumor? We didn’t know . . .
Don't think it rains in southern California? Think again.
This is how we spent our Christmas break. We wanted sunny, we got soaked. We expected paradise, but our situation was pathetic. We hoped for a Christmas full of wonder, but we were full of worry. Worry about what else would happen. Worry because we were not in control. Worry because we didn’t know. We didn’t know anything. Not really. We had hopes and we made predictions and we even used the internet, but we just didn’t know that things would happen this way.
What a depressing thought! That we must hobble through life from disappointment to disappointment, with nothing for sure to hang a hat on! That we all must drift along, carried by currents that we cannot oppose, buffeted and bullied by waves large and small. Sure, we can try to be optimistic about it, but no matter how we view it the fact is that we don’t know and we can’t control what happens most of the time. We can’t be sure that our plans will work out. We can’t really be certain about anything.
Or can we?
When we make plans for the coming hours, days, months, and even years, is there anything we can trust with absolute certainty? Can we know?
Like a rock that rises from the stormy sea, pummeled by the surf and yet standing strong, surrounded by movement and change and yet unmoving and unchanged, is Truth. Sure, certain, dependable, steadfast – Truth. Not just true things, but Truth itself. The Truth. And in that Truth, we can know. We can trust. We can cling to the immovable, immutable Rock that is the Truth, and we can be steady and certain in the midst of an ocean of uncertainty, difficulty, and change.
That Rock – that Truth – is Jesus. In Him we can stand firm. If we have repented of our sin and put our trust in Him we can know that our future with Him in Heaven is secure because He has already paid for it with His blood. He has given us the Holy Spirit as a down payment – a guarantee – that we are His. We can look forward with assurance to the day when we will be with Him (Mark 1:15; John 14:6; Ephesians 1:13-14; Colossians 1:19-22; Hebrews 13:8; 1 John 5:12-13).
We can know that whatever happens today is not just chance or coincidence. We are not just floating around, subject to whatever and whoever comes across our path. The wind and the waves obey Him – the Way, the Truth, and the Life. God planned today, knew about today, before we were even born (Psalm 139:16; Matthew 8:23-27).
We can know that through the uncertainty of each day, we have the promise that God is with us and He will not leave us. He cares for us. He sees our tears, He hears our prayers, He knows our needs (Psalm 56:8; Matthew 6:25-34; Hebrews 13:5; 1 Peter 5:7; 1 John 5:14).
So in the uncertainty, we can be certain. When we don’t know, we can know. When we feel afloat, we have an anchor.
Cling to that Rock, to that anchor, to that Truth. Cast your doubts, your feelings, your worries, into the sea as weights that will drag you down. When the uncertainty comes, when you don’t know, when your plans are changed, when you feel like you will be washed away by the waves of life – cling for all you are worth. Know that there you are safe (Hebrews 6:19-20).
"Cling to that Rock, to that anchor, to that Truth."
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