Heaven’s Heartbeat - A False Sense of Security

Descending Hatley’s Gulch in the Blue Mountains was a daunting thing, even in full daylight.

At night, with snow and wind howling, tearing at the old Willys Jeep, it was a whole different animal.

At 15, I’d faced my share of heart-pounding moments, but that November night was different—etched in my memory as a lesson in misplaced trust.

My uncle was driving, and my friend and I hunched in the seat, clinging to anything solid through each sharp, stomach-churning curve. The Jeep’s dim yellow beams barely pierced the darkness, revealing only the next twist flanked by steep, timbered ridges. Knuckles white, teeth clenched and heart racing, I squinted through the smeared windshield, dreading every bend.

I knew Hatley’s Gulch all too well. If we could survive the tightest curves just up ahead, the road would straighten, and I could breathe again. My uncle, ever confident, chuckled, “We’re fine, boys. Just hold tight.”

We held tight as the old Jeep growled through the final sharp turns, each one a gamble. Just then, the tires began skidding on wet gravel, and everything tightened up; my heart pounded with every lurch.

I’d seen the victims of the Gulch—the twisted remains of trucks and cars littering the bottom of the ravine.

Finally, I recognized the last section of sharp curves looming up ahead, the road disappearing into a black void.

Passing the last curve, my grip loosened; my pulse slowed. My friend let out a shaky laugh. “We’re good,” my uncle said.

That’s when it happened.

The Jeep hit a patch of mud and ice, skidding into a rut beside the mountain. The Gulch was to our right—the side where I sat—invisible in the dark. That abyss was a place I did not want to go. Not then, not ever. My uncle jerked the wheel as the old Willys launched itself up the steep bank. But it wasn’t going to work. The forward motion and extreme angle were too severe and too fast. The world tilted, then spun.

The Jeep rolled—once, twice, three times, the metal shrieking with a high-pitched grind until it slammed to a stop on its roof, wheels still spinning.

Dazed, I found myself on the road, blind in the dark. Snow stung my face. I stumbled over to my friend—his breath ragged from bruised ribs. Then we heard a moan from the Jeep. My uncle was still inside! We pulled him out onto the snowy mountain road. “You boys okay?” he croaked. We were bruised and banged up, shivering from the adrenaline dump. But we were still alive.

The three of us worked together on the uphill side of the Jeep, heaving the old Willys back onto its wheels. Its roof was crumpled like a battered pop can, but the engine started, and we somehow limped down the mountain, shaken but alive.

I’ve replayed that night countless times. We’d survived the worst curves, and I’d let myself believe we were finally safe. I’d convinced myself that clearing the last sharp turns meant smooth sailing to safety—and that my uncle would get a grip on himself and take his foot off the accelerator.

I was wrong, and the experience that night taught me a valuable lesson about a false sense of security.

It’s a truth that echoes through history and the pages of the Bible. The French trusted the Maginot Line’s fortifications, only for Germany to blow right through them in 1940, toppling France. Napoleon’s hubris in invading Russia in 1812, repeated by Hitler a century later, led to catastrophic defeats. The “unsinkable” Titanic sank in 1912, a monument to overconfidence.

Scripture offers stark examples. Jericho’s citizens boasted of their mighty walls as impenetrable—until they weren’t (Joshua 6). Samson trusted his strength and Delilah, only to be betrayed and destroyed (Judges 16).

The church in Laodicea bragged, “I am rich; I need nothing,” yet Jesus called them spiritually bankrupt, urging them to repent (Revelation 3:14-22).

The rich fool in Jesus’ parable (Luke 12:16-21) planned bigger barns for his bumper crops, saying, “Take life easy; eat, drink, and be merry.” God called him a fool, for his life ended that night, and he left his riches behind.

These stories warn against trusting in wealth, walls, personal prowess, or our own personal perceptions.

True sense security lies elsewhere. Jesus offers an unshakable promise in John 10:27-29:

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand.”

Even on the darkest, stormiest nights down the Hatley’s Gulch of life, Jesus’ promise holds. His security is no illusion—it endures when mountains and men fail.