Sometimes the Universe Makes Us Stop

Sometimes the Universe Makes Us Stop

Today I spent time volunteering as a judge at the Puget Sound Regional Future Business Leaders of America Competition. The event was about 66 miles from my house, and I needed to be there at 7:30 a.m. No big deal, right?

Here’s where it got a little more complicated.

My husband had left yesterday for an event on the Kitsap Peninsula and took the Honda Pilot. That left me with the Nissan Leaf, our electric car. A full charge is usually good for about 70–80 miles. On a good day, my driving style might squeeze out an extra mile or two. That is, unless I turn on the heat, go up hills, or get nudged by traffic to drive faster than the speed limit.

I planned carefully. I gave myself extra time to stop for coffee and breakfast, and if needed to top off at a fast charger along the route. I had already scoped out where I would stop.

I left about five minutes later than planned and told myself it would be fine.

Breakfast went smoothly, and I was back on the road, only slightly behind schedule.

Just south of Seattle, the rain started. With it came the need for defrosters and heat.

“This shouldn’t be an issue,” I told myself. I had already earned two efficiency trees and still had about 59 miles left on my charge, with roughly 44 miles to go. I could still stop for a quick charge if needed.

Then things shifted.

Near SeaTac, the wind picked up and the hills became more frequent. Traffic flow nudged my speed higher than I would have preferred. I glanced at the dashboard and noticed the available miles dropping faster than expected. I was closing in on my fourth efficiency tree, but the numbers weren’t comforting.

I started scanning for alternate charging stations closer to the freeway. The only one that made sense was the one I had already chosen at the Tacoma Mall, just five miles from my destination.

As I passed Fife, the dashboard began flashing a warning: 15 miles remaining.

I checked the time. It was 6:59 a.m. I wanted to arrive by 7:15 for training. The charger was ten minutes away. I would need about ten minutes to charge and five minutes to get to the venue. It was going to be tight.

“The training doesn’t start until 7:30,” I reassured myself. “You’ll be okay.”

We all know Murphy’s Law.

I exited the freeway and headed toward the Tacoma Mall. The mileage number disappeared and was replaced by flashing dashes. For those unfamiliar with electric cars, that usually means you have somewhere between eight and ten miles left.

I rounded the corner near Nordstrom and spotted the charging area, only to realize the chargers were disabled.

That sinking moment. Now what?

I kept driving, hoping to find another option. I passed Tesla chargers I couldn’t use. Google Maps showed other stations, but each one turned out to be out of service.

At that point, I let the coordinators of the event know I would be late and kept heading toward Pacific Lutheran University, five miles away, hoping for the best.

I arrived on campus just as the turtle symbol appeared on my dashboard, signaling two miles or less remaining. I parked, walked into the building, and took a breath.

I made it.

The car could wait.

The morning unfolded beautifully. I met my judging partner, discovered an unexpected connection to my theater work, and spent the next two hours listening to and evaluating student presentations. They were impressive. We wrapped up, got our lunches, and went our separate ways.

Then it was time to deal with the car.

Sitting there, I ran through a quiet checklist:

• Is there a charger nearby?
• Do I have enough energy to reach it?
• If not, do I call AAA?

There was a charger about .6 miles away. Maybe I could make it.

The car turned on. I backed up. I put it in drive.

Nothing.

It died in the middle of a driveway. Campus Security appeared and helped me roll it back out of the way. I called AAA.

About thirty minutes later, Eric, the tow truck driver, arrived. He asked a series of questions and explained that this model of the Leaf has a small auxiliary battery that can be charged just enough to put the car in neutral, not to drive it.

We searched for chargers listed on the map. One turned out to be a private residence. Another didn’t exist where the map claimed it did.

Then Eric looked up from his phone.

“I found them.”

We drove one street over from where we had already been. There they were. Six chargers. And they worked.

As the tow truck pulled away, I found myself alone in a nearly empty parking lot.

Were these fast chargers?

How long would I be here before I could drive home?

And then I realized something.

I was in full stop mode.

I sat in the car and instinctively reached for my phone. This, I noticed, was not full stop mode. I put it down.

I looked around.

A large crow perched at the top of a tree, scanning the area before letting out a single squawk. People walked their dogs. Cars came and went. Campus Security passed by again to check on me.

The sky began to shift. It was clear the sunset would be brilliant.

It was quiet. My body softened. I wasn’t deciding anything. I wasn’t solving anything.

I was listening.

What might the Universe, God, the Divine have to share, if I let it?

Thoughts came and went. I let them pass. My body felt calm, settled, present.

This is the still point.

It’s why I’m offering a small, intimate gathering next Saturday called Finding Your Still Point. I’ve learned how to recognize this place in myself and allow space for it to emerge. Sometimes insight comes. Sometimes clarity arrives. Sometimes it’s simply rest.

Are you familiar with this place?
Maybe you once knew it.
Maybe you’ve never touched it before.

Have you ever been brought to a full stop by life?

And how did you respond?

Finding Your Still Point is a small, intentional gathering for those who feel stretched thin, uncertain, or quietly disconnected from themselves. Through guided reflection, embodied presence, and gentle listening, participants are invited to slow down, reconnect with their inner knowing, and leave with greater clarity about what truly matters. This is not about fixing or forcing change, but about creating space to hear what’s already true.

For more information about February 7 gathering click here.