Prints

I long to follow the footprints in front of me. Made by my Abba. My Lord.  I wish the prints were easier to track; it's as if He wants me to study the surface with a scrutinous eye before stepping forward. If the ground was wet and muddy I would have no difficulty following. But the prints are hardly perceptible, like flour on a dusty chalk floor. One swirling into the next. Tan and beige and white dust, like the mixing of cake batter when for only a moment your eye can see the distinctness and then the powders are swiftly one. 

I know my Lord is ahead of me, softly whispering 'this is the way- walk in it, daughter.' But here I am at the convergence of paths in the wood. All freshly plowed clumps of dirt. Markings absent. Just a soft whisper of a voice saying 'this way- come.' 

Did my Lord call me from this way? I ask a fallen leaf. Did my Lord call me from this way? I plead with a small acorn on the path. Did my Lord call me from this way? I cajole a crossing ladybug. I am left alone with the echo of my Lord's voice in my head, in my heart. 'This way, daughter, I am leading you. Come fast.' I bite my lip and close my eyes tightly. I squint in the sun setting low on the horizon. I turn my head to hear the faintest sound, but still just an echo of words from before.

I take a small cautious step to the right. No, this can't be it. It doesn't feel like the way my Lord would have gone. I retreat and choose the path to the middle. I think this might be the way, I decide. Setting my hat and gripping my bag, I shove my hands into my deep pockets and step with a little more confidence. Forward. Yes. This must be the way. I am following my lover into my future. This is the way.