It was in Uganda the last time I felt God speak to me so clearly,
that I had to stop dead in my tracks under a jack fruit tree,
The clouds hung low, heavy with rain,
and I waited on the stones
to be swallowed up by the magnitude of it all.
That was over a year ago.
And yet tonight, as I opened the journal,
with the pages covered with my handwriting,
red-dirt-stained and crucible-marked,
I remembered the jackfruit tree.
I remembered the moment I wanted to
slip off my dirty sneakers,
and stay until someone found me.
I don't know if God speaks to you,
or if He does, if you hear it.
But I do hope that the words of life come your way,
that just when you feel forgotten,
the earth would swell up under your feet
to nestle you under a fruit tree.
That the air would feel so holy,
ringing with truth,
that you would feel the urge to slip off your dirty shoes,
fall on your knees
and say "thank you".
I hope this for you.
Because that has been a source of manna for me,
a lightpost on the trail as I look back,
a lantern swinging in the night.
A reminder that even when I've felt invisible,
standing before an uncertain future,
God shouted to me in Africa,
just before the rain fell
by the jackfruit tree.
linking up today: