I stopped, turned around, and faced the man who had called out to me. The dusk sky darkened.  My lungs deflated in a slow, silent exhale. The little bird captured in the upper left center of my rib cage fluttered nervously. I didn’t know the man by face, but he had medium brown skin, long, black hair captured in a braid, and a full body. He looked like a lot of the men in my husband’s extended family and tribe. I tried to carefully, silently, sneak another breath. Was this, too, forbidden?

Maybe I didn’t give him my full attention, but I should have. I wanted guidance. My mind was chattering, making excuses. How much I have whined about this moment, since it happened, a year ago. I didn’t know how to submit to another human being and still submit to God. Haven’t I learned this by now?

Submission is waiting, waiting to hear someone out completely. And then, once you have done that, make a judgement. Why are you here? Why are you hearing this? 

Sometimes it is the rantings of a lunatic, a person too full of himself. Other times it a signpost in the desert, without which you would lose your way.

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