Lying there, my head on his chest, I am reminded of Anne Lamott's Rosie. How the mom's feet were alone at the foot of the bed, though her bed was not empty.
This is my favorite place to be, when it is dark. Quiet.
Though indecision cloaks the air.
We both have reached the same conclusion-about where it is God is leading. Just we are never there together. He is solid one day, and I am resistant. The next we reverse.
"How I wished God had a flashing neon sign."
A common utterance since my adolescent days. Then. Then I would know for sure just what it was He wanted from us. From me.
"I think I know, but then something new happens, and I can't be sure. I wish I had some concrete sign."
"The Israelites had one. They still screwed it up." My husband’s voice, the delicate pragmatism, cautious because though he is right, I am a better arguer.
I remember from Bible School days, Moses leading by fire at night and a cloud during the day. A flashing sign, looming before him.
Still the people doubted, made a golden calf to worship-a tangible God. Ignored the majesty that was smoke and fire.
I wonder if Moses did too, his heart tentative, asking the Lord if He was really, really sure this was the way to go. Did he question the burning bush; explain away his white hair after coming down the mountain?
And what if my flashing neon signs are all around? Explained away as coincidence, luck, misfortune?
Maybe the voice-the nudging, nagging thought is His flashing sign. It is just us, me, who wonders if He is really, really sure of the direction. If it were there in print and lights, would I still wonder if it was what He wanted?
Wondering if it not the flashing neon signs I am missing, but the faith to believe them.