The culture I live in does not favor bowing. When I did square dancing back in high school there were little curtsies to my partner, and he bent his torso in response, but that was the extent of the niceties. There was a Shirley Temple movie that I watched many times in which the butler bowed to Shirley, whose name was Curly Top, in a way that prompted her to reciprocate. After half a dozen such exchanges, she complained that her back hurt, and could they please stop? 

The story in church was about Joseph's dream about bowing. His sheaf of wheat stood up straight, and his brothers' sheaves bowed low to his. The response to this prediction of future events did not engender warmth, but instead contributed to feelings of resentment. Joseph was not showing off. His dream simply described how things would play out. 

Sometimes God does this for me. He gives me a sneak preview of how a conflict will resolve, and to be honest I am not always on board. Which says more about me than about the process.

I am glad, though. Having a hint of what is coming is a mercy. 

When Benjamin was in the hospital at five months old, I was desperate for hope. Would he live? Would I lose him? I prayed deeply around the story of Abraham and Isaac, and how close that parent came to losing his son. But a miracle intervened. 

One of the long line of medical staff came to give Ben therapy, and he jostled me out of my lethargy. I felt a little less lost, and when he turned to leave, I asked his name. 

"Isaac," he said as the door slipped shut. 

For me, that was as loud of a declaration of God's promise to protect my son as a billboard would have been. It was twenty six years ago, and even now, bowing myself to the ground would be the merest expression of my gratitude.