Jerry recalls trying to fax his San Francisco family during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake as an 8th-grader in Houston. When the line went dead, he kept trying to send the message, mistaking effort for control. He learned that sometimes the problem isn't yours to fix, and silence can mean the line needs to clear on its own.
Chapters
Today is the 36th anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake that hit San Francisco. I'm from San Francisco, but I wasn't there. I was in Houston in 8th grade helping my dad hook up his brand new $900 fax machine. Yeah, back then that was high tech. You feed paper in, dial a number, and somehow your message would print across the country. It felt like magic. The World Series was on, Giants versus the A's at Candlestick Park, and I still remember laughing because I saw my middle school gym teacher on national TV sitting in the stands. He was supposed to be teaching PE, but I guess he was getting his cardio from the bleachers that day. He was actually with one of our other teachers that he was dating that we all didn't know. Then I remember the camera shaking and the announcer yelled, oh shit! "Earthquake!" And then the screen went blank. I didn't think much of it then, but growing up in San Francisco, earthquakes were normal. I kept fiddling with the fax machine trying to send a test page to my aunt back home, and it wouldn't go through. I just kept getting a busy signal. A few minutes later, my sister called me. She said she was okay. I said, "Okay from what?" She said, "The earthquake." I started rolling my eyes. I thought, She just interrupted the phone line. That's why the fax didn't go through. So I hung up the phone and tried again. Still nothing. Then the news came back on the TV. Freeways collapsed, bridges down, people trapped. And that's when it hit me. The reason the fax didn't go through was because the world on the other side of the line was broken. For years after that, I lived with the same mindset. If something didn't work, I just tried harder. Refresh, retry, resend. If a business failed, rebuild it. If a marriage cracked, fix it. If someone pulled away, chase harder. That day taught me something I didn't understand until much later. Not every connection fails because of you. Sometimes the system on the other end is down. Sometimes the bridge really collapsed and no one and no amount of pressing send will bring it back. We confuse effort with control, but effort can't fix what isn't yours to fix. So I built a new system for myself. Before I try again, I pause and ask, is the problem mine to solve? Am I repairing something Or reviving something that's gone? What if the best thing I can do is step back and let the line clear itself? Because sometimes surrender isn't giving up. It's giving space for what's meant to reconnect. The old fax machine taught me more about life than technology ever could. You can be doing everything right, but if the line's down on the other side, you're just sending noise into silence. Now, when something doesn't go through—a conversation, a relationship, even a prayer—I don't panic. I pause. I trust that if the connection is meant for me, it'll open up again when the lines are clear. Sometimes the most powerful rebuild is learning when to stop dialing. Because peace isn't found in forcing connection; it's found in trusting timing. This is Jerry with Rebuild Dad. If this story hits home, share it with someone still pressing send on a line that's gone silent. Sometimes the silence isn't rejection, it's redirection. So start again stronger.
