|I have no idea what this is a picture of...|
You know those pictures that, at first, just look like a mess of different colored dots? But if you stand a few feet back, squint your eyes just so, the picture magically becomes a silvery dolphin playfully swimming through a beautiful blue-green ocean? Or maybe it's a lovely clearing in a forest of greens and yellows with a rippling stream running through the center.
I never saw anything in those pictures. Except a lot of different colored dots.
(We won't go into what that might say about dysfunction in my brain.)
I kind of feel like that about God.
I look. I listen. I try to be still. I try to open myself to a conversation with God. I strain to hear the whisper in the hurricane.
White noise. Crickets. Radio silence.
Everyone else seems to have them. A lot. All of the time.
"...then, I heard God."
"I knew God was telling me..."
"I could feel God moving inside my heart..."
When someone tells me, "I had a talk with the man upstairs," I want to ask, "Was it a two-way conversation? Did God really answer you? Offer advice? Comfort you? Really?"
Or the signposts along the way. "It was a sign from God," someone will say. Where they see a the yellow flower in the field as a message written in script by God, I see a yellow flower in a field, a rainbow in the rain, a butterfly on the breeze.
I can only recall two distinct times that I think maybe perhaps it could have been God in direct contact with me.
They were significant enough to keep me searching. Looking for that "true" relationship that I felt was being offered but didn't really know what to do with.
(Dear God, you are the one who made me profoundly introvert. Don't you know how hard this is for me?)
A friend once pointed out to me that I am very "black and white." I wanted to disagree. I wanted to say that I do see the grays. The nuances. The inbetweens. But to a great extent, he is right. I am literal to a fault. I am ingenuous. I don't get hints. And while I have a black belt in smart ass, I can be ironically confused by someone else's sarcasm.
What I need is a postmarked, handwritten letter with specific instructions.
That's not likely.
So, here I am. Waiting. Wondering. Wishing.
And squinting hard at the crazy mess of colored dots in front of me.