By David Hobbs
The Western Utah night was peaceful and still. I was sitting in the driver’s seat of our minivan, on the side of a deserted road, steam rising from the engine. We were trying to get home from a family reunion at Rocky Mtn. National Park in Colorado. The engine had first overheated going up the mountains to the park. Then, on the way back, in the vast expanse of hot Wyoming the problem had recurred. The first time we had just replenished the radiator water, but this time more water didn’t help. I guessed it was a stuck thermostat, at least. We limped along the interstate into Utah. Even going downstream along the river didn’t cool it off. And each exit had that pitiless sign “no services this exit.” But I had to do something. I pulled off at an exit leading to the tiny town of Echo where, the state assured me: “no services [were] available.”
There was a gas station that had closed long ago, and a little restaurant. Next to the restaurant was a house. I pulled up in front and spied a garden hose in the yard. “Maybe I can at least run some water through the radiator; perhaps that’ll help.” But no one answered my knock at the front door. As I was wondering what to do next, a man strolled over from the restaurant and asked me what we needed. I explained about the overheating problem and that we wanted to use some water from the hose.
“You’re sure welcome to that,” he said, “but it probably won’t help much. Sounds like your thermostat is stuck closed, blocking the water from flowing through the radiator.”
“Yeah you’re probably right, but what can I do about that?”
He thought for a moment, looked at my wife and boys. “Maybe I can take it off for you.” He went to the garage (it turned out to be his house and his restaurant) and came back with some wrenches. In no time he had the nuts loosened and the recalcitrant thermostat removed and the line put back. “Now fill up the radiator and start ‘er up.”
I was amazed at how willing he was to drop everything and help us: out-of-town, total strangers, and from California at that!
I cranked up the car, anticipating a quick and happy end to our ordeal. Water started squirting everywhere!
“Shut ‘er down! shut ‘er down!”
After some examination, he gave me the bad news. “Your thermostat had its own built-in gaskets. Without the thermostat in the line, it’s metal to metal. That’ll never hold the water, especially under pressure.”
Another man walked up to see what was going on. It looked like we were check-mated. We had been praying, of course (that goes without saying). Then the other fellow, named Terrill Riggs, told the restaurant owner (whose name I lost) he thought he could craft a makeshift gasket for us. He found an old inner tube in the garage and whacked off a piece with his pocketknife. Painstakingly he carved on it, cutting out a hole in the middle for the water to flow through, and making it the right size for the opening. All the time my three boys, ages 12-15, were being remarkably good.
At last it was finished. (During this time the owner had wandered back to his restaurant.) I started up the engine again and this time it held—glory! I was very excited at getting it fixed in this out-of-the-way place and at the absolute kindness of these two men! Terrill wouldn’t accept any money. I walked to the restaurant to tell the owner that we were ready to go. “How can I repay you for your help?”
The man wouldn’t accept any money either, but said if we wanted to repay him we could buy supper at his restaurant. We were glad to do that—the food was good and the prices were reasonable.
“Listen,” he said, as we were getting ready to leave, “if you stay on the interstate (80) to Salt Lake City, you’ll have to go over a high mountain. That might prove too much for your cooling system. I’d keep going down the river on the other interstate (84) to Ogden—no mountains! Then follow it north to Snowville and there’s a state road you can take into Nevada that will bring you back to the interstate near Wells. It’s mostly flat and you’ll bypass the mountain passes in Eastern Nevada. That’ll be your best shot!”
After thanking him profusely we left, full of food and happiness that God had been watching over us.
It was dark but still oppressively hot when we stopped in Snowville for gas. So far so good. Our simple minivan didn’t have a temperature gauge, just an idiot light when it overheated, so it was impossible to tell exactly how we were doing. I thought I should check the water level in the radiator, but it was making rumbling noises like it was boiling inside and I was afraid to take the cap off. “Not a good sign,” I thought.
We found the state road (highway would be too generous a term) and left the interstate and civilization behind. It was slightly over 100 miles to the little town of Montello, the only named town between Snowville and our junction with the interstate near Wells.
The road was deserted and the air was finally cooling after the heat of the day. We made good time. The countryside was as deserted as the road. If people lived out here, it was a mystery where.
Our friend had told us the way was “mostly flat” compared to the interstate. But in Utah, “flat” can be deceiving. The changes in elevation were more measured, but they were there nonetheless. Soon we were going up a long, gradual grade that lasted for miles. Suddenly the “engine overheat” light came on and I swerved off the road onto the shoulder and shut off the motor. Steam was hissing from the engine compartment.
Check-mate!
Before we had merely been in trouble; now we were stranded! Cell phones were still a novelty item in those days, not that there would have been service out on the Utah desert. It was the middle of the night, there were no cars, no people, no houses, no lights, no water and the nearest open business would be at Wells, roughly 120 miles away.
“What are we going to do now?” my wife Marcine inquired.
“I don’t know,” I replied. I literally had no idea what to do: no plan, not even a far-fetched, hardly-any-chance one. I didn’t dare even try and open the radiator because whatever water was left would boil out and be lost.
I sat there in silence in the driver’s seat. First the boys, then Marcine, went to sleep. Now I was really all alone. I rolled down the window. The night was beautiful, the air balmy and mild, the silence complete.
Now I’m a quiet guy: I speak slow, think slow, and ponder before I speak. The world rarely waits for me to speak. Instead it rushes on ahead and around me and sometimes without me. I remind myself of the crippled man in John 5 who was never fast enough to get into the water in time to be healed. So in crowds I can’t seem to speak up quickly enough to get the floor. Someone else always jumps into the conversation, even before the last person is finished talking, which I was taught was impolite. Group prayer is the same way: while I am considering what to pray about and how to frame my prayer, somebody else jumps in and prays instead. Others seem so nimble at speaking, talking without even thinking sometimes. This has reinforced my already passive personality. I hold my peace and let the others talk and pray and do. I’m not going to fight them for it.
Now at last there was no one else; it was just me and the Lord. And He was my only hope. He was not my fallback option if my other plans failed. He was it! On the one hand I felt the weight of responsibility for my family’s safety and well-being, and for the impossibility of the situation. But on the other hand I felt a joy, almost a gentle ecstasy, because there was no other option. Now it was all God! He would help us because He loved us and we were His responsibility! It was as if deep inside me my spirit man breathed a sigh of relief, laid my passive personality aside and stood up, saying, “Ah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.”
I began to pray into the still night air—not desperate, pleading, frantic prayers, but calm, hopeful, quiet ones. A part of me was definitely relishing the situation. This was what I had been waiting for. This was where theory and reality parted ways, where it all shucked down to the cob. There was no faking your way through this—either God met you or your goose was cooked!
A car passed by on the far side of the road without stopping or slowing, almost like the priest and Levite passing the injured man on the road to Jericho. How would God help us? Where would deliverance come from? What form would it take? I prayed some more, unhurriedly. There was no rush; everyone was asleep and I wasn’t going anywhere! And the night was so beautiful. It was good to sit, breathe in the air and look out over the moonlit desert. “Lord have Your way. We trust You. You’re all we need.”
After half an hour it occurred to me that the engine had probably cooled by now and I could risk opening the radiator. Sure enough, the cap came off with no problem. It was dry. I remembered that we had a gallon jug of water in the back we had brought along from Echo. I poured it in, pretty much filling the radiator. When I got back into the driver’s seat it further occurred to me that since the engine was cool and the radiator replenished, there was no reason not to resume our trip. Might as well see how far we could get. Every mile was that much closer to Wells!
But would the engine start? Maybe it was fried! Gingerly I turned the key in the ignition. “Vroom!” It started right up. Glory! Cautiously I pulled back onto the road and off we went. I kept our speed to a max. of 40 to get as many miles behind us as possible before trouble recurred. The boys and Marcine continued to sleep peacefully, even soundly.
After a period of steady driving, I came to an unmarked town. It was all closed up for the night, but there was a gas station with a water hose. I decided to top off the radiator and refill our gallon jug. When I took off the radiator cap I found to my great surprise that the water inside was actually cool! The cooler night air, the slow speed, and the lack of a thermostat to inhibit the flow of water were working wonderfully.
After that I resumed a more normal highway speed of 55 and the miles slipped by faster. We finally reached Montello and I could tell we were in Nevada: it was the middle of the night; there was no gas station, restaurant, or grocery store open, but the bar was rocking! Nevada night life! We quickly cruised through town, heading for Wells.
For so long I had looked at Wells as our salvation destination, and everything had been geared toward just getting there. But when we reached the outskirts of the town, everything was going so well and everyone was still asleep that I began to reconsider. If we were to find a garage to work on the car we would probably have to wait hours for them to open in the morning. “Everything is going so well, why not just keep going? If we do break down again, at least we’ll be on the interstate.”
So I kept driving, heading across Nevada towards our home, 450 miles away. The night air was even cooler and I was back to freeway speed of 65 now. Mile after mile sped by. We seemed to be on a roll. Sunrise came as we were approaching Reno near the western edge of the state. Then came the big test. Right over the border, in Calif. were the Sierra Nevada Mtns. We had to cross them over Donner Pass, nearly 7000 feet high. But as we came through Truckee at the base of the mountains, at the agricultural check station, I saw a thermometer that showed the temperature to be in the 30s! Wonderfully cool for this most grueling climb of our return.
We breezed up and over the mountain with no problem. As we descended into the Central Valley however, the temperature rose quickly. But now we were closing in on Marysville. At 10:30 in the morning the temperature was back in the 80s and the van was showing signs of heating. But before anything could happen we were home!
We had to get a new radiator and of course a new thermostat, but there was no lasting damage.
In a way it was too easy: no more than 30 minutes of unhurried, quiet, trusting prayer and it was as if God supplied angel wings to escort us out of an impossible situation for 575 miles to our home. Like Jesus said, His yoke is easy and His burden light!
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