I stood at a 3-pronged fork in the trail. One path went straight up into what looked to be brush – twigs, fallen trees, high grasses. Another went down, quite steeply, into loose dirt peppered with uprooted tree trunks and interlaced roots yanked from the ground by a storm of days past. A third wound narrowly around the bend but seemed to disappear quickly over the ridge. None of the paths appeared well maintained and I couldn’t decide which was the actual trail I was meant to follow. I was on a several mile hike to a high alpine lake and the trail had been easy to follow until that moment. But now here I was, having already gained several hundred feet in elevation, hot, sweaty and seriously ready to jump in a cold lake. But which way to go? I searched for the tell-tale blue fabric hanging from a branch or stuck onto a tree truck, the forest department’s trail markers. But there was no blue fabric to be seen. I really didn’t want to trudge either up or down through loose dirt and fallen trees. If I went up when the path was down then I would unnecessarily tire myself out. If I went down when the path was up, then I would just increase the amount of elevation I needed to gain later on. If I headed out toward the ridge, would the path narrow dangerously? Would I be able to get back?

I could feel my heart rate increase even as I stood still. What to do? I was alone on the trail and my cell phone had lost signal before I even started to hike. I still had most of the water in my bottle but it was a hot day and I’d need to drink pretty soon. Memories of people I’ve read about getting lost and dying on mountain trails flooded my mind. I thought about just hiking back down the way I came and calling it a day. Forget it if the pathway isn’t marked.

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I decided to head a bit around the ridge, just to see if I could get my bearings. As soon as I rounded the bend, I saw it. The ubiquitous blue fabric trail marker, tied to a branch over my head. Thank God I had the patience and curiosity to just check it out, I thought. I could have wasted the whole day by just going back and giving up.

So many times in life we find ourselves at forks in the road or wandering on a path to we-know-not-where. We wonder if we’re lost, we look hopelessly for signs and we strongly consider just giving up. But the signs are always there, just not where we expect them and not always so obviously. The other signs on my trail had been very clear. Unmissable in fact. Until this one. This one required a bit of faith, a bit of patience, a bit of willingness to check it out. In our lives also maybe we’ve always known what to do, where to go, who to go with. But now we’re not so sure. Maybe it’s a decision about marriage or a job or where to live. Maybe we’re wondering about the very purpose and meaning of our lives – which way will take us to fulfillment? It’s easy to give up. It’s easy to get frustrated, to assume that God or the Universe has forsaken us or forgotten us, as I assumed the forest dept had been negligent in their duties to mark the trail.

This is why faith is so important. It gives us that extra push, that extra bit of strength to just keep walking and see what happens, sure that at some point, somewhere, there must be a sign. It’s why people with faith are not only happier, but also healthier – physically, mentally and emotionally. The anxiety that flooded my mind and corresponding cortisol that flooded my body as I stood there with no idea of where to go or what to do, no idea where, or if, there would be a trail marker….that anxiety, and the corresponding cortisol, floods so many of us each day as we try to navigate our life’s journey alone.

But just as the forest department did its due diligence, fulfilled its duty and did, in fact, put up the sign, so the Divine always gives us the message. It may not be loud. It may not be obvious. It may not be where we are looking for it. It may not be on our timetable. But it’s always there. Sometimes it may be visual; sometimes it may just be a feeling in your heart (or in your gut) that you realize it trying to tell you something. But it’s always there. We may simply have to round the next bend to see it…