The Odds Might Not Always Be In Your Favor

I live in Southern California, and if you’ve been watching the news, you know that it’s been on fire. Our city is surrounded by the San Bernardino mountains on three sides, and 10 days ago, an arsonist set fire to those mountains just a few miles away from us. We haven’t had rain in months, and last week the temperatures soared above 110, so we were the perfect tinder box. 

During the day, the air was so thick that the mountains disappeared. At night, ribbons of bright red slashed through the darkness in the distance. Folks pulled their cars over to the side of the road, watching, entranced as the ribbons danced through the mountains, terrifying yet mesmerizing. 

A week ago, the whole world smelled like when you get too close to a campfire and you can’t breathe. Our church’s annual baptism ceremony in the mountains was canceled, many schools closed, and friends were evacuated from their homes. 

I watched the FireMappers app obsessively as the evacuation zone crept closer to our house until it was just 1.7 miles away. 

I don’t do well with evacuation warnings. 

Don’t be silly, said one part of my brain. The fire would have to jump a wide road and a creek bed before it gets even remotely close to you. What are the chances you would actually have to evacuate? 

But then the other part of my brain said, That’s what you thought the last time. And then it happened.

Not a fire, of course. I was remembering the spring of 2020, when I watched a COVID-19 map and assumed it would never make it all the way from Italy to East Africa. I assumed that until 4:00 p.m. on March 19, when a missionary friend told me that his organization was requiring him to leave Tanzania. And the ground fell out underneath my feet as I entered a nightmare for the next five days.

Last week I thought, I told myself Don’t be silly that time too. And a sinister fear planted doubt: If it could happen that time, it could happen again. 

It’s easy to tell ourselves, Oh come on, don’t worry, what are the chances of that actually happening? Until the odds are no longer in our favor and the nightmare comes true. The child who always recovers doesn’t recover. The lump that is probably nothing is actually a bad lump. The near miss on the freeway doesn’t miss this time. Or the evacuation order actually comes. 

It’s interesting how often I assuage my fears based on odds. The news headline gives me a fright, but I analyze it carefully: That would never happen to me. I don’t live in that city, in that neighborhood; I don’t frequent that bar, that park, that dark alley. I always buckle up; that cancer doesn’t run in my family; my country would never go to war; I have insurance for that. I don’t need to worry.

So when the odds are defied and the bad thing happens, I can’t trust in statistics anymore. Which reveals that I was, in fact, trusting in statistics to keep me safe. 

Fear always reveals something to me about myself. Something about what I love or what I idolize. Something about where I’m putting my trust or my hope. Turns out, trust in the odds can only go so far in keeping me from being afraid. 

There’s a benefit to realizing this: it shows me just one more thing I’m trusting in besides God. 

An article by Vaneetha Randall, called “What If the Worst Happens?” has stuck with me for a decade. Vaneetha’s suffering has defied the odds in more ways than one: she’s had a degenerative chronic illness since she was a child, she lost an infant due to a doctor’s error, and her first husband walked away from their family. Her mind was constantly filled with “what ifs,” but God changed them to “even ifs.” Even if the worst happened, she could trust that God would be faithful, good, and sovereign. 

So last week, when my mind went to all the scary places, remembering when the nightmare came true, I also called to mind the ways I can now see God’s hand in it all. And if He brought me through that, He can do it again. 

Once again, I found myself singing,

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me,
Let me be singing when the evening comes. 

Even if the worst happens. 

A view from our house last week.