I was on my way to meet a friend last weekend when, as I pushed my way out of one metro car en route to another line, three blind people collided with me. Three. They weren't together; their guide sticks hit my calf from different trajectories. I should be on watch for God's voice even in the mundane, but I'm usually not. But when you face the most awkward cross-cultural choque imaginable early on a crowded morning, you have to raise your eyebrows, look up, and say, "Three?"
Maybe it was coincidence that I log jammed three blind travelers in my permanent tardy-blitz. Maybe it was coincidence (or Greek yogurt right before bed) that dreams have been disposed and forgotten for months until last night, when my dream-self survived an earthquake only to somehow die shortly afterward. I was scared until right through the end; it was emotionally draining and not at all noble.
So what's the story, Joseph? I'm a bewildered pharaoh who pledges to lay off the late-night dairy for a little meaning-making. If anything, Bible characters seem more cross-hatched and full than their Sunday school caricatures, which I view as one inevitable plot line from birth to wrestling with God to parting major bodies of water to going blind to recording cryptic visions of dragons and moon-women on a deserted island. But hindsight is iron and steam to the present's creases and inside-out sleeves. We haven't changed that much; the faithful of yesteryear itched their scalps in confusion and tried their best to work out how the Lord was fire and cloud in their day, but the glass was still dark.
I don't have to know, not now, not ever, a wise mentor once told me. I think I will keep my ear closer to the ground, though, just in case there's a method to the strangeness, a thread through the mouse maze of daily life abroad. If I convene another trifecta-wreck between myself and those with visual disabilities, though, I'm calling Providence.