When the children of Israel wandered in the wilderness for forty years, they had no topographical maps. GPS had not been invented, and there was a lack of road signs. For that matter, there were no roads. But God invented a marvelous means for guiding them. It was a pillar. 

 

During the day the cloudy totem did a masterful if mysterious job of communicating simply by its momentum. When it stayed put, so did the throngs of Israelite families. When it up and floated away they scurried to catch up. As the matriarch of my family, it was me who did the packing up of pots and jammies for a camping trip, and I feel for the moms thousands of years ago who had to hustle with no warning. I also empathize with their impatience, on those sweltering afternoons when they would have welcomed a chance to pick up and go, yet the pillar stayed stagnant. 

 

In the night sky, the signal was a flame. I imagine there was radiant heat coming from a sixty foot tall blaze, which is at least how tall it would have been to be seen across thousands of encamped families. There was snapping, too, from the restless orange tongue that was never, could never be silent. 

 

My own journey has been eased by such signals. If I heed, there is an unmistakable tug that pulls me to follow, or wait. Both take effort, it turns out. Yet in bartering the navigational rights to God, there is a comforting exchange. I trust that he sees the span of horizon, and all I need to manage is stirring this soup.