Needing To Leave Home

I am a Thursday's child, but I linger on the front stoop, bare feet pressed against concrete steps, the warmth to which I cling only an afterimage from a sun already set. It is time. Time to move.  Restlessness presses against my back; a whisper warns my spirit: You can't stay here. From ahead, I hear a call, an invitation: Come, follow Me. I love His voice, and yet I am afraid.

I tell myself the one I do not trust is me, not Him. I fear my own faulty hearing and touchy navigational instruments. I fear I won't be any good on this mission (whatever it is). I'll be clumsy, a fool, I'll forget my pocket handkerchiefs and have to borrow. People will trust me and I will hurt and fail them. Meanwhile the stoop gets colder and the stars come out.

My suitcase is on my bed, open and empty. It seems such a daunting task. What to take, what to leave. Is there anything I may take? I've been assigned to write goodbye. And the pen waits. And the paper is fearfully, blaringly blank. Still, the Voice in the darkness calls, calls me to leave the apricot lights and familiar rooms. And the wind blows--behind, the exhale pushing me out; ahead, the inhale drawing me forward.

"You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it" (Psalm 139:5-6, ESV).