Gasless

I haven't always had a full tank of gas...and I'm not proud of it. 

I left the Bethune Beach with full heart—after my church baptized some people in the Atlantic—when I realized that I did so with empty gas tank.

Far enough in from the coast, I was on a busy road but people were scarce and the sun prepared to set. As I returned from the only establishment within walking distance, defeated, a familiar car pulled off the road in front of my car. Some of my best friends came bearing gifts of gas and gas can. Saved.

I’ve needed that can.

Nevermind that my car is from 1991 and the fuel gauge is hard to read, I tend to run out of gas a fair bit (about a dozen times over the course of my adult life). That’s not to count the countless times that I’ve barely made it to the station, coasting in safely just as the engine took it’s last gasp of breath.

Why is that? (I’ve had to address that question often internally.)

My mind tends towards abstract emotion, as opposed to concrete logic, so as I drive I often daydream about principles and causes and righting wrongs. Not precise details like “how much gas do I have in my tank?”

Foolish? Maybe. But accurate.

Luckily, with the passing years has come a self-actualization that makes me more like a normal person, rarely—if ever—running out of gas.

But that all changed in Bali, when I had a couple occasions of coasting to gas stands with my scooter.* Each time, I gladly put the risky mixture in my tank and kept on my way, but it reminded me of where I’ve come from. Granted, driving in Bali is a all-hands-on-deck situation with how much traffic there is and how little traffic laws are enforced, but it reminded me that I’m not perfect.

That realization alone is enough to remind me to keep applying myself enough to personal growth so I continue to have not only a full heart, but a full tank of petrol.