No one told me the night they changed the gas pumps. Maybe I slept through the news. Perhaps I didn’t read the paper. Who knows what happened. All I know is this: I didn’t know how to gas up my car. I entered the convenience store and asked the clerk for twenty dollars’ worth of fuel on pump number three. But she wouldn’t take my money.
“You don’t have to give me money anymore.”
“Are you serious?”
“Use your credit card to pay at the pump.”
“Pay at the pump?”
“Pay at the pump.”
Some of you are too young to know this, but we used to pay for gasoline inside the store. Yes! Ask your grandparents. Life hasn’t always been this easy. When we were young, we braved the freezing cold weather or blazing heat and made the walk from pump to store. I think it was a five-mile hike. Uphill. Into the wind.
It was a great day when credit card readers were installed at the pump.
My first experience with one was confusing, however. Returning to the vehicle, I tried to figure out what to do. Hours passed. Standing between gas pump and gasless car, credit card in one hand, hose in the other, staring at the dotted letters charioting their way across the tiny screen, not believing what they were telling me to do.
“Swipe card.”
Swipe card? Why swipe a card? I already have one, thank you. Besides, theft is illegal. I’m a minister. I can’t go around swiping people’s credit cards. But, then again, what choice did I have? I noticed a rough-looking, refrigerator-sized fellow gassing up a truck next to me. He might know something about swiping. “Hey, where do you go to swipe a credit card?”
“There,” he pointed to the pump. “Right in front of your nose.”
That’s when I realized swipe meant slide. Not only did they change the system, they changed the language. So I complied. Even though my dad had pledged to punish me if I ever swiped anything, I did. I swiped my card through the slot. Didn’t work. According to the gremlin who lives inside the pump, I swiped my card in the wrong direction. The letters said, “Swipe again.”
I did but failed. Never was a good swiper.
“Look at the picture,” Mr. Big Guy shouted. “You’ve got to swipe the stripe.” Sure enough, the picture portrayed the proper stripe placement. I complied. But a good swipe wasn’t enough. “Enter pin number.” Pin number? Fortunately I had a pen in my pocket. Unfortunately it had no number. By now the man was gone, and all I could do was sigh.
What a position in which to be. My tank out of gas. The pump full of gas. But the connection between the pump and the car? It wasn’t happening.
Do you know the feeling? I know you do. Not with your car and gas but with your heart and God’s strength. You need fuel. Doesn’t take long to burn up a tank. Boss demands more hours, doctor requires more tests, spouse wants more attention, church needs more volunteers—everyone wants more. Before long you are out of gas. Heaven has an ample supply of energy. But how do you make the connection? How do you put God’s gas in your tank?
Here is my suggestion. Fill your tank with the promises of God. One student of Scripture spent a year and a half attempting to tally the number of promises God has made to humanity. He came up with 7,487 promises!1 God’s promises are pine trees in the Rocky Mountains of Scripture: abundant, unbending, and perennial. In the next few pages let’s explore some wonderful God-guarantees. You’ll go further on a full tank of his love.
You’ll be glad to know I finally gassed up the car. And I didn’t have to swipe anything to do it.