The Lost Bus

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” That line—usually attributed to Mike Tyson—has been sitting with me all week. Not loudly. Just there. Lingering.

On Sunday, I preached about plans. About how planning can be wise. About how structure can help us move forward instead of drifting. And also about how quickly a plan can turn into something else entirely—something we cling to as if it were God. and that itself is bad because when we’re honest, many of us do this strange, half-conscious spiritual shuffle: We say we trust God.Then we make our plans.Then we pray over our plans.

And somewhere along the way, we start assuming that because God loves us, God will surely make what we decided work. “If God loves me,” we think, “God will back this.” That sounds like trust on the surface.But it may actually be control—just dressed up in religious language.

We follow our hearts. We trust our instincts. We double down on what feels right. Rarely do we pause long enough to ask whether our confidence might be misplaced—especially given how little we can actually see. We live in fragile bodies, with partial information, in a world that doesn’t cooperate nearly as much as we’d like. ***If you want to read about this ideas and the story of Matthew 2:13–23 you can read the sermon recap.

A Movie That Punches You Right Back

Anyway, Sunday night, after preaching all of this, I watched The Lost Bus on Apple TV.

Fair warning: this movie will stress you out.

Kevin McKay—played by Matthew McConaughey—is already unraveling before the main crisis even hits. His wife has left. His son, Shaun, wants nothing to do with him and even says he wishes his dad were dead. His mother, Sherry, is slipping away cognitively. Even the dog dies, just in case the story hasn’t made its point yet.

At one point, his wife runs through his entire history in a phone call—dead father, broken relationships, unresolved trauma—as if the film is saying, Don’t miss this. This guy has been carrying a lot.

Then, because life has a way of stacking the deck, his child gets sick on what becomes one of the most catastrophic wildfire days in California’s history. This is a movie full of people who had plans. Reasonable ones. Responsible ones. The kind you’re supposed to make.

None of them hold.

When the Plan Isn’t Enough

At its core, The Lost Bus is about control slipping away. Preparation doesn’t guarantee safety and reveals that at somepoint even the fightfighters need to stop fighting the fire. Good intentions don’t prevent suffering. Doing everything “right” doesn’t stop the fire from spreading. That’s the part we tend to soften in church, even if unintentionally: Faith does not make us immune to pain. #CanIgetanAmen

Yes—the driver survives. The teacher survives. The kids survive. That matters. It really does.

But the ending isn’t tidy. Survival doesn’t erase trauma. Rescue doesn’t undo loss. The fire still burns. Grief doesn’t magically resolve just because the credits roll.

That feels closer to real life than most of us would like to admit.

Jesus, Take the Wheel (And Actually Mean It)

As the movie ended, my mind went—not ironically, not sarcastically—to that familiar line: Jesus, take the wheel. Not as a cliché. Not as a throwaway lyric. More like a confession.

Making a plan is good.Trusting a plan can help.Structure can steady us. But the world is still broken. Our vision is still partial. And sooner or later, life punches back. Scripture doesn’t tell us to abandon wisdom. It does, however, caution us against leaning too heavily on our own understanding. There’s a difference between planning faithfully and quietly assuming we’re in charge. Sometimes the faithful move isn’t tightening our grip—it’s loosening it. Not telling God, “Here’s my plan. Please bless it.”But praying instead, “Here I am. Lead me.”

Hope That Doesn’t Depend on the Ending

Christian hope isn’t rooted in the promise of a happy ending. It’s rooted in presence.

God doesn’t always remove the fire. God meets us in it.

God doesn’t always fix the road. God stays in the driver’s seat.

When the plan collapses—when the map stops making sense—grace still holds.

So yes, make a plan. Be thoughtful. Be prepared. Be wise. But when the road disappears, when the fire edges closer than expected, when life punches harder than you were ready for— let go of the wheel. Not because you failed. But because you trust the One who sees what you can’t. And sometimes, that trust is the plan.

As We Make Plans for the Year Ahead

With a new year approaching, many of us are already planning—setting goals, naming hopes, imagining what the next chapter might look like. That impulse isn’t wrong. Planning can be an act of faith. It suggests we care. That we’re paying attention. That we believe the future is still worth preparing for. But it’s worth remembering this: our plans are not promises. They’re not guarantees. They’re educated guesses made with limited vision.

So make your plans—but hold them lightly. Write them in pencil. Leave space for interruption. For redirection. For God to say, “Not this way.” Pray not only that God would bless your plans, but that God might reshape them—or even replace them—if love requires something else. As we step into a new year, may we plan wisely, act faithfully, and trust deeply—not in our own understanding, but in the steady presence of Christ who walks with us when the road changes. And often, when it disappears altogether.