As I drove through the sleepy stillness of Velvet Ridge tonight, I felt a few solemn tears slide down my face as I remembered my earlier conversation with my spiritual soul mate, a friend who’s seen me (and loved me) at all sorts of highs and lows over the past 11 years.
A week or two ago, I found my thoughts and prayers turning to her repeatedly. I am no spiritual Sherlock Holmes; I honestly could not discern whether the “thoughts” were stemming from my own mental ruminations or from a supernatural source. A few days ago, God confirmed the source as Himself, and I knew that I’d have to offload the burden He had placed on my chest.
And of course, that was His plan. He spoke to me so I would speak to her. I had no idea how timely or stinging the words He gave me would be. I just knew I had to say them. I did, and I believe they stuck to her soul.
This is not the first time God has whispered words to me, over and over again, until I finally acknowledge that the Voice I’m hearing is not my own. Last week, God used an acquaintance’s request for information to remind me that something I’d had on my mental and spiritual to-do list for months must seriously be done, and now. It took her phone call to confirm that each time I’d contemplated the topic, it wasn’t just chaotic chance that routed my thoughts back to that very thing. It was God tying spiritual strings on the fingers of my heart, hoping I’d finally glance at them and recall the reason for their existence.
How many times will He have to prove to me that the Still, Small Voice I hear is not my own? Who knows. But I know that every time I hear It, and see the Words take shape, It becomes clearer to me.