God Speaks

Our pastor often says, "God speaks to us, we just don't always hear well."
Sometimes God's voice comes as a gentle nudge to do something, other times a disquieted feeling of conviction that's I've messed up and need to make something right. Often, it's a little uncertain. It's an, "As best as I can tell, I think God wants me to do this" sort of thing.
However, like the Children of Israel who would always point to the parting of the Red Sea as the unmistakable display of God's power and protection, I have two unusual instances in my life that I point to as God speaking directly to me.

The first occurred when Dave and I had been married for over four years and were wanting to start a family. We'd been trying for a few months with no luck, and the difficulties my mom had getting pregnant made me concerned I might have trouble as well.
Dave and I had been mentoring a boy through Youth Horizons, and he was in the process of getting out of foster care and becoming available for adoption. Was it God's plan for us to adopt him?
I had started reading through the Bible that year, and came to Abraham's story in Genesis. Childless, he was asking God if his servant Eliezer would be the one to inherit his estate. God's answer to him came straight to me:
"This man will not be your heir, but a son coming from your own body will be your heir." Gen. 15:4.
I copied the verse on the dated page in my planner.
The boy was adopted by another family.
A couple of months later I'd worked my way to the book of Numbers. Moses sent 12 spies to check out Canaan, the promised land. When they returned, only two, Joshua and Caleb, expressed confidence that God would fight for them and give them the land. The Lord's anger burned against the 10 spies who were afraid, and He declared that none of them would ever see the promised land. 
Numbers 14:24 leaped out at me. "But because my servant Caleb has a different spirit and follows me wholeheartedly, I will bring him into the land he went to, and his descendants will inherit it."
When I went to Colombia in 1988, one of the missionary couples had a cute little baby named Caleb. I'd liked the name ever since. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a boy named Caleb who follows God wholeheartedly?" I thought with longing.
A few weeks later I learned I was pregnant, and already had been when I'd read the verse. We named him Caleb. My prayer has always been that he would follow God wholeheartedly.

The second instance I point to happened in the fall of 2005. Laurel, my baby, had entered kindergarten. With all three of my kids in school, I planned to focus my efforts on my writing. I'd been editing our church newsletter for over five years, but I started including a more in-depth feature-style narrative in each issue. For one of these, I'd interviewed Danny, a former truck driver who, through a series of chance events, got a job working alongside a man from our church who befriended him and eventually led him to the Lord.

Over the summer I'd contacted a writer I'd been acquainted with for a few years whom I'd hoped would mentor me, but had recently realized that wouldn't work. Then I ran into a former professor of mine who is also a writer. She mentioned she was moving from her duplex to an apartment, so I arranged to help her one morning, hoping I'd have a chance to talk to her about mentoring me. Since my newsletter with Danny's article in it had just been printed, I brought it along and showed it to her when we took a break. She looked at it briefly, handed it back and said "Why don't you keep it for someone who can appreciate it more?"
Even at the time, I knew she was overwhelmed from moving, downsizing. I knew she was in a "I need to get rid of all this stuff" mode, and I had handed her one more piece of paper to deal with.
But that didn't make it hurt any less. I'd handed her my soul, and she'd stomped all over it.
I lost it.
She had no idea why I was crying, and I couldn't tell her for a few long, awkward minutes.
Eventually I explained, she apologized, and even agreed to mentor me.
Still, I had a lingering, deep ache the rest of the day.
After coming home late from my kids' school rollerskating party, I had a message on our home phone.
It was from Danny. He'd had a rough day, then arrived home to find the Current in his mailbox. He said he was so encouraged to read his story, and to remember again how God had worked in his life. He affirmed my gift of writing, and thanked me for telling his story well.
After I'd replayed the message for the fourth time, my daughter Laurel put her hand on my leg, looked up into my face and asked, "Mommy, why are you crying?"
Through my tears, I told her that God had left me a message.

On Sunday, I thanked Danny for the call.
He told me he had felt really funny making the call, and even more foolish leaving the message, but he'd had a strong direction from the Holy Spirit that he should.
"I know," I told him.