God Whispers

"Don’t forget to set your alarm for five o’clock. We’re going to the beach early,”  Margy reminded me one night during my holiday with her family in Nambour. “I haven't forgotten!” No way would I forget a swim at the beach. “I’m coming too!” Ten year old Pam was excited. I prepared for bed and sat in a chair.  Sipping a cup of tea, I read my Bible and sat, hoping to feel God's presence. I'd welcomed these holidays. I hadn't been a Christian long and was still finding my way. A recent mountain top experience with God had left me hungry to hear more of that still small voice, but He'd 'gone silent' in my busy life.  Now I was staying with the Smiths, my friends in Nambour, for six whole weeks. Surely all that free time would enable me to hear from Him! The days drifted past lazily and happily.  I spent plenty of time praying.  Surely He'd speak to me? Wasn't that part of what I’d ‘signed up’ for when I surrendered to God?

                                              Photo Arlene Dodson A few weeks ago a close family friend was planning to leave for a New Zealand holiday with his wife. They looked forward to their much-needed break. A day or two before they were due to leave, Rob (we’ll call him Rob), in preparation for his flight, went to the doctor. He hoped to get help for a lingering cough after a cold.   The doctor examined him carefully and said, “Your cough is fine but your heart’s not beating normally. It needs to be checked.” Rob groaned inwardly. Surely not a delay in getting away on holidays? The doctor sent him for tests. He was not okay at all. He was admitted to hospital where further tests showed atrial fibrillation– “You were headed for cardiac failure,” the doctor told him. He proceeded to treat him and aborted the threatened crisis. God had put it clearly on Rob’s mind to get the cough checked. If he hadn’t, the flight would probably have precipitated

Until recently Queensland was in severe drought. Parts still are. This was written a while ago but is still applicable in some areas. I pray for the farmers who still suffer the effects of drought. The land is aching. Parched. I look from my veranda to dry yellow-brown grass, plants dying, even weeds wilting. The entire countryside is tired, drained. The river has shrunk in parts to a narrow silver thread, trickling lazily over dry rocks. Only the deep hole there to swim and cool off. Down near the little stream are banks of cracked mud. Dry and scaly. In the wet weather the mud swells, and now it has shrunk. Further up, big cracks form in the land. Crows make loud protesting ‘ark’ sounds. They hover and flap in the dusty air. Over dinner one night I comment how pretty the yellow-flowering creepers are on the trees near the bank. “They’re a pest,” Jim tells me. “They kill the trees. Suck the life out of them. They’re parasites.” Oh. I wonder if, in dr