The moon is full and orbed in a pane of the french doors to my bedroom. I am sitting on our couch, listening to summer through open windows. Today I run into someone I haven't seen for a long time--she is happy and full, smiling when she tells me that she feels like she's in the center of God's will, feeling it fully. She is sorting organic produce at the food co-op two doors down from me when she tells me this. But she is happy and full.

Today a friend sits across from me, reads me a page or two from her journal, some recent counsel she recorded: when you find yourself at a crossroads, remember what the last thing the Lord spoke to you was: does it jive?

We both stop and look at each other. When was the last time the Lord spoke to us? What did He say? What were the specifics or even the generalities? Did it really happen or was it make believe?

And I remember the last time the Lord spoke to me, something that resonated so deeply in my soil, something that pushed me to touch the hem of his robe, something that made me feel like things were in sight. Vision was soon. Or at least the harvest. But that was last summer. Last August. And I waited and waited and waited. Because He said it was soon. He said that.

Instead all I felt was more pruning, less joy, less fullness, less harvest.

I trip on the Ephesians this week, the lost love ones. They knew they put it somewhere, they just couldn't find it. That's a hard place to be in, I concur. It isn't like we lose it on purpose, stuffing it away like winter clothing in favor of something lighter or a hide-a-key stuck to the wheel-well. No, it's been lost. Misplaced. Crowded out, like a middle child or an important receipt, a nondescript thing of value.

But we still want it. It still belongs to us. It still feels right to us. That joy and fullness that accompanies the knowledge that we're in the center of God's will. Not the actual being there, but the knowledge that this is right. God has said it, and it is right.