43 guessing myself mid-step, with one foot poised haphazardly in the air, unsure where I should set it down. I get lost in the forests of future-questioning, unknown-speculating, worry-gnawing, decisionruminating. Looking for mossy bark along these wooded paths is merely an impractical, impotent pastime. When I feel the scalding pressure to make up my mind and commit to a decision, it hardly feels like the sun is shining; this kind of heat is internal. Clouds and fog and darkness all compete to wash away clarity and obscure the next step. Sometimes, in the darkness, the stars shine through. I know how to sift through the distant dots to find the guiding North Star, following the pointer stars of Ursa Major and landing on the handle of the Little Dipper. Yet I am still tethered to the topography of this earth; I cannot follow Polaris’ direction as the crow flies, escaping the unseen valleys and mountains that lie ahead between here and there. For all the scientific effort and natural observation we invest in defining it, “direction” remains abstract and indefinite. Our minds and hearts continue to stew over recurrent questions: What is the next step? Which is the right path? Yet, in faith, still probing, still searching, I rejoice that the stars are not silent, that they testify heavenward, and I look up, somehow comforted even in my questioning. * * *
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