The Still Small Voice

I’ve never heard the proverbial “still small voice” spoken of in the Bible. For me, it takes earthquake, fire, roaring wind, or a cast iron skillet to the back of the head. Or does it? This story might seem kind of involved, but I’ll get back to that skillet. In December of 1994 I passed the last of my tests to earn a black belt in Tae Kwan Do. A couple of years later I was getting close to testing for a 2nd degree black belt. My instructor even said words to that effect. I made the mistake of scoffing at the idea. That’s a mistake because when a martial arts master tells you it’s time, believe me, don’t scoff. It’s time. At any rate, he never brought it up again. I trained for another two years, and there was no mention of an advancement. That’s the result of (false?) humility. The reason I scoffed wasn’t because I doubted I was ready, it’s because I wanted a man I greatly respected to continue telling me I was ready. Anyway, that’s not the point I’m heading for. I gradually faded away from that martial arts school. My work schedule changed, and eventually I stopped going altogether. For many years I wondered if I should go back. I did try, but the school changed to another Federation and all the forms (kata) were different. It would take me probably another year before I’d be ready to test again. Again I faded away. Then one day I was heading into a local hospital for some routine tests, and met a fellow student who had also faded away. He and another former student had opened their own school, and he asked if I wanted to come help teach. Was that a word from God? I thought so. Why, after all this time, did everything align just right? I dove back in with a vengeance. If God wanted this, I wanted it. I prepared for a test for 2nd degree black belt. An investment property of mine had been recently sold, so I had money to open my own school about thirty miles away. I’d move. God wanted it. I started searching for buildings for my new school. Financing fell into place. Buildings weren’t exactly ideal, but workable. Just when everything looked perfect, the floor fell out from under . . . everything. Another school had just opened about five miles away. The guy who ran it was a county sheriff. Nice guy. But one thing you don’t want to do is encroach on the territory of a guy who can make your life miserable by pulling you over for every conceivable traffic violation, and who has a jurisdiction that covers where you want to put up a school. Financing fell through. Federation affiliations developed complications. The building I was about ready to make an offer on was sold. It was over. Why, after all this time of everything pointing toward me owning a martial arts studio, did it disintegrate before my eyes? Cast iron skillet, meet the back of my head. About two years ago I remembered what I was thinking at the time when everything was looking golden. “And between classes I can spend all that free time writing my books!” God’s still small voice echoed across the years.