Show Me a Sign …

Photo: Outside Jewish History Museum, Cape Town 

Over the last week or so the subject of “signs” has come up quite often. Last Sunday while in church, my pastor talked about signs. I am going to substitute one of his words, but he basically said that signs follow [spiritually connected] people, not the other way around.

Last week I spent some time in New Orleans celebrating my birthday. On Friday during a historical tour, the tour guide drove us through some neighborhoods that are still rebuilding 7 years post Hurricane Katrina. On a few sidewalks there were markings — signs — of where the water levels rose. And on too many homes, the signs spray painted outside indicated that the home had been inspected and the number of bodies found inside.

On Sunday, I was subbing for another teacher in Sunday School and once again the topic of signs came up. The class affirmed that when God is trying to tell us something, move us some place, and get us to change direction we receive signs. And often times, more signs follow once we’ve made the right decision.

Signs. Signs all around us. Signs following us. Signs reminding us. Signs guiding and affirming us.

And then there’s me … having a battle of my own on the inside. About 3 months ago I began struggling with a particular matter. I do believe signs were all around me: physical and spiritual. The signs were keeping me from falling asleep and waking me up in the middle of the night. The signs were pounding on my heart and nudging at my soul. One after another, in various forms, were signs. So why — may I ask — does my prayer remain show me a sign?