A Dialogue With My Conscience

It is a dark and lonely night. My eyes are heavy, my feet tired. I want out. It is then I hear the familiar voice. "Get going," says my companion. I can't see it, but I know its voice like the back of my hand. It is the last thing I want to hear. I will rather call it a day and save my life for another day. I have an idea. If my companion cannot see, at least, I can. And it is my responsibility to let it know. So, I protest. "But there is a huge river ahead." Its reply carries an audacity that I have not seen all day, "Don't worry, there will be a boat for you when you get there." A boat! Where from? How? 

 

Still stunned, I hear another rumbling in my heart. "Get going," says my companion for the second time, in flagrant disregard to my protestations. This time, I throw nicety overboard.  "For heaven sake, can't you see the thick wilderness ahead? Can't you?." That should do it, I think, as I bask in the glory of my triumph over my persistent companion. Its reply scuttles my celebration. "Just get going, God will make a way." God! Where has He been all this while? I have had it up to here. I want out. It's over. I walk away shouting, thinking I can drown the gentle but authoritative voice.  In between the shouts, I can hear the rumbling again. And this time, in its most authoritative tone yet. Its still small voice pieces through my confusion. 

 

It speaks before I can even try to drown it. "Get going!" That makes me visibly angry. "Look!" I say - my face frozen, my lips tightening. "There is pitch darkness out there and I am not about to risk my life. It is dangerous." For the first time, my companion seems to have thrown in the towel. There is silence. But the silence is deafening, so deafening that I immediately prefer my companion's unwelcome intrusion. I smile for the first time, hoping my companion sees it and appreciates it as my olive branch. "I am sorry," I say with conviction, "it's just that it is too dark to navigate my way through." In a strange way, I feel its warm embrace. It is so soothing, I don't want it to stop. Then comes the voice again, so calm, so reassuring, so loving:"Not to worry, take a leap in the dark and the light will shine. Trust me." I know I have got to obey. With joy, I leap in the dark, the thick forest no longer a threat, the huge river ahead no longer a dread. Oh my God! I have been conversing with my conscience.