amy sullivan knows how to tell a story. she also knows how to love God, hard, and she blends the two with a magic of word and beauty. read on, friends…

We left Michigan in the middle of the night during a whiteout.

My ten-year-old self didn’t know exactly why we were moving again, but those big, fat flakes seemed symbolic. The view of our destination blocked by a solid sheet of white, and the view of our past already covered.

We packed quickly for this move, and somehow, my Christmas gifts were mistakenly given to Goodwill. In all of the rushing, the wrong box found itself in the wrong place, and that translated into newly opened Christmas gifts being donated to a “less fortunate” child.

Good-bye Pocket Simon and stocking trinkets and Purple Pie Man.

I sat in the back of my uncle’s car and tried to will my tears away.

My face pressed against the window and searched for a sign: a mile marker, a tree, a blinking light in the distance, anything that indicated we were on the right path and this was a good move and this would be the last move. I longed for flashing neon. Instead, I observed a wall of snow.

But sometimes that’s how God leads us, through whiteout conditions, longing for things lost, and praying new destinations turn out better than we believe.

Twenty-five years later, as I walk around in my self-created whiteout, questions swirl, and I still search for signs: Is my life headed in the right direction? Am I screwing up my kids? When will we make a dent in those bills?

And because sometimes I long for trumpet blowing angels to loudly proclaim answers to my endless questions, I miss the signs of assurance God gives me daily.

Loud, belly laughs from my two-year-old. Silly calls from old friends. The perfect breeze that floats through my evenings, and a forgotten ten dollar bill when I’m certain I will be paying for gas in change.

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