“O God, you are my God;
I earnestly search for you.
My soul thirsts for you;
my whole body longs for you
in this parched and weary land
where there is no water.”
-Psalm 63:1 (NLT)
I open my eyes and find myself surrounded by the dark. A whisper invades my heart, “come with me.” It is urgent, yet gentle. It feels as though I’ve been asleep for an eternity; my body aches, my mouth is parched with thirst, and I feel a deep sense of shame, like I’m covered head to toe in dirt and grime. The whisper seems to give me strength. The voice beckons, and I obey. For what feels like hours I follow the whisper. There is a familiarity to it, although I cannot seem to remember ever hearing this voice before. My eyes still haven’t adjusted to the dark, and I can make out just one thing: black. Am I blind? The voice calls again, “come with me.” I follow.
Perhaps my blindness is a gift, for if I saw, I may be overcome with fear. The still, small voice feeds me peace, and it leads me not into the darkness, but delivers me from it. Hope begins as a spark in the depths of my being, and soon flows out of me in flames that I can’t, nor want to control. The voice is a promise. A promise of freedom. A promise of wholeness. A promise of love.
What is it about you that gives me hope? It’s not like you make your presence known in my life with loud noises, supernatural activity, and bright road signs. Rather, I find you to be increasingly hard to find, especially as my life becomes more complex and busy. And as hard as you are to find, as soon as I actually start to look, I find you anywhere and everywhere. In fact, I’m sure I could find you in a bright road sign if I really wanted to.
So here I am, constantly over stimulated by the copious distractions that the world has to offer, just wishing you were as loud as they were. But you aren’t. You’re the kind of quiet that I have to strain to hear. And the more I focus the more I can hear. But I’m not really hearing with my ears. The voice speaks from within me, as well as around me.
Some people say that you’re an idea. I’ll admit, I’ve thought that thought before. But I know better. You’re a person. And when I’m in the desert of my life, you are the person that leads me to the water. The dark threatens to suffocate me as it closes in around me. Yet your voice continues to draw to me safety. I can’t see a thing, but I know yours is a voice I can trust.