Often my whispered prayers come out like the questions my four-year-old asks in the long summer afternoon. What now? What next? And I can barely make space for a Voice to answer, because I am being folded deep into what is. Pursuit and desire for the next step, for the knowing where and how to move within the lines of all that is, can edge on restlessness but fall into expectancy.
It seems like just when I find myself settled into a sense of exhale, I hear the holy haunting of a God who doesn’t stop moving whispering, go there, try this, step out. And those nudges, gentle in nature and laced with grace, have me always wanting a little bit more, always desiring a little bit of newness.
I would like to think that if I were to hear the Voice say, “Go into the ark, you and your whole family” like it once did to Noah, that I would find the wood and start building. I would like to think that I would gather the troops and begin to organize.
But God hasn’t yet audibly laid out the plan for me. Mostly I hear creaking of doors opening, the Voice speaking less in words and more in stirrings and fresh opportunities. Mostly I hear the laying down of stepping stones, the Voice speaking more by a soft pressing on my back.
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