Remembering God’s Grace through Life’s Journey

I remember falling asleep in the back seat of my grandparents’ old station wagon, wrapped in the haze of late 1960s upholstery and the hum of tires on the Parkway. My sister was beside me, small and curious, and I was asking the question every child asks on every long trip: Are we there yet? Over and over again. The answer was always no—until, at last, it was yes.

We were headed somewhere upstate—some little tourist version of the North Pole, with snow kept frozen on a pole in the summer heat, and elves, reindeer, sleighs, and that hollow cheer that the world tried to fill where Christ should have been. But none of that mattered to us at the time. We were just passengers—riding, sleeping, waking up again—Are we there yet?

At some point, my grandmother handed me a road atlas—one of those spiral-bound maps with all the colored routes laid out across the state. She let me flip the pages and pretend I was choosing our path. I’d say, “Let’s take the yellow road,” and she’d smile and say, “Great choice.” I’d point to the green road and ask if we could go that way. “We sure could,” she’d say.

And the truth is—we never left the road we were already on.

She let me think I had a say. She let me trace the routes, ask questions, imagine I was steering. But we were in her car. We were in her husband’s hands. The destination hadn’t changed. And the choices I made with that map didn’t steer a thing. She honored my wonder without surrendering control. She let me be a child.

It didn’t matter what road I pointed to.
What mattered was whose car I was in.

And somewhere along the way, I must’ve fallen asleep again. Because the next thing I remember—I woke up, and we were inside a cabin.
We were there.

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I think about that trip sometimes when people talk about the return of Christ. About prophecy and timelines and calendars. And I think about how Paul said, “Now is our salvation nearer than when we believed,” and how Jesus told us to watch—not because we’d see it coming, but because we wouldn’t.

We’re in the back seat.
We don’t know the roads.
We don’t know how many pages are left in the atlas.
We can’t see over the dash.

But He’s driving.
And the destination is real.

The thing is—back then, in those old station wagons, we didn’t even face the same direction as the ones driving.

Our seat was in the way back, turned around, facing out the rear window. While the road unrolled beneath us, I wasn’t watching where we were going—I was watching where we’d been. The scenery was already behind us. The bumps had already been hit. The turns already made.

We could guess how fast we were going by how close the cars behind us got, or how the trees flicked past. We could feel when we slowed down. But we couldn’t see what was ahead.

And if anything had ever happened—if someone had slammed on the brakes in front of us, or a truck had drifted too close, or a deer darted into the road—we never would’ve seen it coming.

But Pop would’ve.

My grandfather—he barely ever said a word. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t distant. He was just steady. While the rest of us talked, laughed, argued, asked questions, or dozed off—he just kept driving. My mom and dad were in the middle seat, Nana rode up front beside him, and we were in the back, pressed up against the glass, watching the past get smaller.

I don’t know if he was listening to her or just knew the way already. Maybe both.

He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud.
But he got us there. Every time.

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I remember, years later, he started to lose his hearing. And if the car got loud—if we were yelling, or bickering, or someone was crying—he’d just reach up, adjust the little dial on his hearing aid, and smile. We didn’t even realize he’d turned it off until it was too quiet.
He’d just keep on driving.

Somehow, that memory sticks.

And the sound I remember most, even more than the voices, was the road itself.

Back then, a lot of highways were made of concrete, and they had expansion joints in the pavement. They’d make this soft, steady bump… bump… bump under the wheels. The faster we went, the closer together the beats got—like a heartbeat quickening. The slower we went, the more spaced out the rhythm.

But it was always there.
Even when no one was talking.
Even when I’d stopped asking if we were there yet.

The road was always speaking.
A kind of quiet assurance that we were still moving forward.

And Pop just kept his hands on the wheel.

The trip to Niagara Falls came not long after that—at least, that’s how I remember it. I may have blended the years together, mixed the sounds of one car ride with another. But I can still go to the photo albums, flip through the pages, and there they are: the Falls, the whirlpool, the spray of mist, and that green station wagon. My mom is in those pictures. So is Nana. So is Pop. And my dad. They are all gone now.

But the memory?
It’s still alive.
And it mostly remembers the good.

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I was such a little guy, but I can still see it: Horseshoe Falls, rainbows dancing in the mist, the roar so loud it filled your chest. There was something called the Maid of the Mist—boats that took you right up to the edge of power itself.

And I remember the coat.

They made me wear this ridiculous yellow slicker—something between a fisherman’s outfit and a rain shell zipped up to my chin. My Nana made sure it was buttoned tight. Bright yellow. Floppy hood. I hated it.

Then came the gondola—the one that crossed over from the U.S. to Canada. A cable strung over the river with tiny swinging cars. And they wanted me to get in that? No thank you. I remember throwing a fit, no way, no how. Not happening.

Mom and Dad went across and I remember watching it pull away , my Nama held my hand till the got back…

Instead, they loaded us all into a boat that pulled us right up underneath the falls.
And years later I realized why I needed the coat.

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The roar was something beyond volume. It was living thunder.
The mist wasn’t gentle—it was drenching.
The captain of the boat brought us so close that the whole world disappeared in the white noise of those seemingly omnipresent falls.

And all I could think about—was that whirlpool I’d seen earlier. I cried a lot I remember.

I’d seen where the water funneled down into a violent spiral, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. How do you control something like that? How do you know when too close is too close?

When ever I see a whirlpool even today, I still flash back..

I didn’t know.

But the captain did.

He brought us right to the edge—
and held us there.

I think that that whirlpool still. Spins even today!

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When it was over, we pulled back to the dock. I remember stepping off the boat, soaked in sound but not in water. Nana peeled that yellow coat off me. And underneath I was
Bone dry.

And remember now—she knew what she was doing all along.

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That’s how God leads us sometimes, isn’t it?
Right into the mist.
Right to the edge of something terrifying and unstoppable.
We don’t know how close is too close.
We don’t know if we’ll come out on the other side.

But we’re sealed.
We’re covered.
And the One steering the boat—He’s not afraid.

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The rest of the world might be shouting, might be panicking, might be spinning in the current…

But we’re in the hands of someone who knows the weight of water,
the direction of the wind,
and the exact moment to pull away.

I’ve often thought about that boat ride—not just for the fear I felt, but for what I didn’t know was happening around me. Somewhere else along that same river, there may have been someone trying to get too close. Someone who ignored the signs. Someone chasing the edge. And maybe they went over. Maybe the current took them farther than they meant to go.

And I never would have known.

Under that roar, inside that mist, with my hood pulled tight and my eyes blinking against the spray—I was just trying to understand the moment. I didn’t realize how safe I really was. Or how dangerous the river could be.

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That’s what sin is like.
It looks beautiful.
It looks thrilling.
But it has a current.
And it drags people farther than they ever meant to go.

The falls weren’t made to be challenged.
And the judgment of God is not something to flirt with.

But here’s the grace:
While some are trying to edge toward danger,
others are in the boat—
sealed, protected, even dry.
Not because they were smarter.
Not because they saw it all coming.
But because someone else made a way…
and told them to put the coat on.

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That’s what it means to be in Christ.

We don’t know how close the world is to the edge.
We don’t know what drop of mercy will be the last.

But we know this:

“The Lord is not slack concerning his promise… but is longsuffering…
not willing that any should perish…”
—2 Peter 3:9

There is a line that cannot be seen—
like the curve of water at the top of a full glass.
One more drop, and the surface will break.

We call it the meniscus.

It holds… until it doesn’t.

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And maybe right now, in this very moment, the age is balanced on that invisible edge.
Not because we see it,
but because God knows.

One soul away.
One call from Heaven.
One last heartbeat before the trumpet sounds.

We’re told to watch, not because we see signs—
but because we won’t.

The fullness of the Gentiles is measured by grace, not calendars.
And it could be one drop away.

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And when the last drop falls—
when the Bride is caught up—
when the sealed are carried into rest…

It will be just like those childhood trips:

We’ll wake up.
And we’ll be there.

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Poem: The Last Drop

I rode in the back with my eyes on the past,
Tracing old roads through a window of glass.
The ones up ahead never needed to speak—
Their silence was safety, their grip on the week.

I dreamed through the mist and I leaned on the map,
Pointing to roads where no wheel ever tapped.
But still we arrived, though I didn’t know when—
And the door was wide open, and I was let in.

The roar of the waters, the trembling sky,
A coat zipped up to my throat and my cry—
The captain just smiled and pulled near the ledge,
While fools took their selfies too close to the edge.

But grace held me fast, though I couldn’t yet see,
That the storm never touched what was sealed over me.
And when mercy is full—when the cup overflows—
The last drop will fall… and the Lord only knows.An Invitation to Remember

If you’ve made it this far,
maybe you’ve been remembering too.

Maybe you’ve thought about your own backseat days—
times when you didn’t know where life was going,
but someone else was doing the driving.
Maybe you’ve felt the bump of the road,
seen the scenery fall behind,
and wondered whether you were on the right path.

Let me tell you something, as simple as a grandmother handing you a map:
You don’t need to know where you are to know whose hands you’re in.

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Jesus told us to become like little children.

Not because children are ignorant,
but because children know they aren’t in control.

They know how to trust.
They know how to be carried.
They know how to cry out when they’re afraid,
and how to rest when they’re wrapped up tight.

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Even in His final moments,
Jesus didn’t say, “John, take care of my mother.” Or “John man up”
He said, “Son, behold thy mother.”
He gave him identity, not just duty.
He gave her family, not just comfort.

And John—the disciple He loved—stood there in silence,
still a son… even after becoming a man.

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The Bible says that God Himself is like a nursing father.
A Father who doesn’t just command…
but nurtures.
Who carries His people close.
Who speaks comfort to His children,
even when they’ve grown tall and tired.

“As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you…”
—Isaiah 66:13

And again:

“They may forget… yet will I not forget thee.
Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands…”
—Isaiah 49:15–16

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So here is the invitation:
Not to prove yourself.
Not to fix your past.
Not to map the future.

But simply…
To trust.

To trust like a child.
To rest like a son.
To walk like someone who’s already been sealed in the yellow coat,
already boarded the boat,
already loved.

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We’re not told how long this ride will last.
We’re not given every detail on the map.
But we’re promised this:

He who began the journey will complete it.
He who holds the last drop will catch it in perfect time.
And when we wake up…
We’ll be there.

Scripture References
• Matthew 24:42
• Romans 13:11
• 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18
• 1 Thessalonians 5:1–11
• Titus 2:13
• John 18:8
• John 19:26–27
• Matthew 26:56
• Matthew 18:3
• 2 Peter 3:9
• Isaiah 49:15–16
• Isaiah 66:13
• Jeremiah 30:7
• Hebrews 3:15
• 1 Corinthians 13:11–12
• 1 Corinthians 15:52
• Luke 12:32
• Luke 21:28
• Psalm 90:4
• Genesis 6:8
• Genesis 7:16
• Genesis 15:16
• Genesis 19:22
• 1 Peter 3:20
• 2 Timothy 3:12
• Ephesians 4:30
• Revelation 3:10