There’s a subtle language shift in Genesis 8 with the way that God speaks to Noah after the ark. Have you ever noticed it? It gives so much insight into God’s tenderness toward the sometimes difficult transition out of one thing that has become less of a thing and more of an identity and into a new and unfamiliar one. Noah After the Ark

When God first tells Noah to build the ark in Genesis 6:13, the text says: “God said to Him.” The Hebrew-speaking verb is ‘amar —it’s one of the primary speaking verbs in the Old Testament and is used nearly 5,000 times throughout its pages. Its main use is for words to bring something to light—in this case, once, in verse 13, with instructions for building the ark.

It’s there a second time in Genesis 7:1 when God told Noah to come into the ark (and also in Genesis 8:15, when He told him to go out of it). And then, there’s Genesis 8:21, 9:1, 8, 12, and 17, when God speaks the promise of the very first covenant in the Bible. Noah After the Ark

Now, jump back to Genesis 6:13, when God ‘amar-said to Noah the state of humankind and the instructions for the ark. For the next hundred years, Noah built in obedience to God’s ‘amar-speaking. You know how the story goes from there—the rains came, the flood waters rose, and the ark that housed Noah’s family bobbed on the waters’ surface for a year. Then comes the dove, the visible ground, the dried earth.

What happened next shows the language subtleties that you wouldn’t necessarily catch unless you were digging for it, like eavesdropping on an incredibly intimate conversation that isn’t intended for you to hear. Except it is. Noah After the Ark

“Then God spoke to Noah,” Genesis 8:15 reads, “saying, ‘Go out of the ark.’”

This time, there are two speaking verbs. The second, “saying,” is the same ‘amar from Genesis 6:13. But the first one, when God spoke? The Hebrew word is dabar, and its primary usage is “to lead flocks to pasture.” But then there is a fascinating twist: “As a shepherd follows his flock,” the word definition reads, “the idea of leading arises that of following.” And in the context of this verse, the word describes God making something known by revelation. Noah After the Ark

“To speak often signifies to promise,” the lexicon says. Yes, there is the covenant promise for all mankind that follows in Genesis 9, but I think there’s more to it than that. I think that God was whispering a promise to Noah, who had devoted so much to building that ark. The man was 600 years old when the floodwaters came (Genesis 7:6) and was 950 when he died (Genesis 9:29). Those numbers tend to get glossed over because they feel more fairytale-like, right? But if you convert those numbers from Noah-years to normal ones with today’s average life expectancy, his story is suddenly more realistic. Noah After the Ark

As of 2021, the life expectancy for the average woman born in the United States was 79 years. If she took hold of a Noah-sized dream, she would be 50 when the flood came (not her 20s or 30s, which some would consider to be the prime of life), and it would have lasted 28 days. But, this is the part to pay attention to: she would have prepared for it for eight years.

Noah’s ark-building years accounted for nearly 11% of his life, and I find that fascinating because Noah didn’t just give God the bare minimum 10% tithe of what He requires of us. Noah gave more. He had a wild amount of faith that kept him pushing above and beyond what he thought he could do. And God, in response, did above and beyond what he could possibly imagine.

And then… it was just… over. That’s the part that began sticking to me this time last year as a woman who had one big ten-year prayer and experienced the jaw-dropping fulfillment of it. At some point in the last five years of motherhood, I realized: That’s not it for me. So, this part of Noah’s story that I had never paid attention to before suddenly fascinated me. With all of the hype of the ark, the build-up, and the building, the anticipation and the fear and the obedience and the perseverance through the experience of everyone around him likely thinking he was absolutely out of his mind, I wondered: What did Noah do after that?

He spent so many years of his life being obedient to this one thing, building it, living inside of it, anticipating the end of it. And then it was just… over. But Noah still had breath in his lungs. So, I wondered: How do you top that? What comes after that big answer to prayer, that one dramatic story of God’s sustained, miracle-moving power?

That’s why I speculate as to the promise that God whispered to Noah that day that He re-opened the ark door He had closed in Genesis 7:16. Or, at least, it’s what God whispered to me through the text—that, yes, that was hard and impossible and wild and so amazing. But that’s not it for you. Come out of that ark. You fulfilled your faith duty. I fulfilled My purpose. That story is done. Come on out, you and your wife, your sons, and their wives, bring out with you every single thing that you took in so that they will abound. You will, too. There is still more life after this.

Noah, after the ark.

The Bible sums up what was next for Noah in one simple sentence. Jarringly simple, actually, compared to the meticulous detail of the story before it.

“And Noah began to be a farmer, and he planted a vineyard” (Genesis 9:20).

Now, again, multiple times in Noah’s story, it says that God spoke to him. Five times, the text says that God spoke to Noah. Do you know what that tells me? Noah heard Him.

That Hebrew word for “plant” in Genesis 9:20 is one that is used overwhelmingly for planting gardens and groves, vineyards, and fruit trees. 73% of the word’s usage is inside of that context. And 24%? It speaks to God planting His people. But then there’s Psalm 94:9 and a curious, one-time-only use of planting.

“He who planted the ear,” the psalmist says, “shall He not hear? He who formed the eye, shall He not see?” And the planting-verb is present and active, meaning God plants it once and keeps it there.

Now, listen (pun intended), with all that talk of God speaking, take another glance at Genesis 9:20. “Noah began to be a farmer,” the text says. But it doesn’t say that God told him to, and it might explain the lackluster ending to Noah’s story in the verses that follow. Because Noah settled into an after-the-ark thing that maybe wasn’t a God-spoken thing, and he looks lost.

When a thing, a calling, a lifestyle of waiting and obedience becomes your identity and then that thing is fulfilled, your identity goes right along with it.

When you no longer have a clear vision ahead of you, something you are believing God for and working toward, you are in danger of ending up like Noah: drunk and embarrassed because his days no longer had direction.

This isn’t limited to the big dreamers and go-getters, either. I’ve talked to many older women at conferences all across the country over the last couple of years. They are retired, their children are grown, maybe widowed, and they aren’t sure what’s left for them.

The best thing you could ever do is to ask God in your after. He vineyard-planted your ear (Psalm 94:9). And I know you know the “I am the vine, you are the branches” part of John 15. I won’t get too sidetracked here, but I want you to notice the tiny preposition that ordinarily gets skipped over—the “in” of John 15:2 and “every branch in Me.” It speaks of the thing in which any person is inherently fixed or implanted, or with which it is intimately connected. The branch is implanted into the vine—inherently fixed into it, intimately connected, continually and perpetually.

You and I are ingrafted into Christ, and God vineyard-planted our ear directly into His vine because He speaks. But let’s not get so comfortable in His speaking that we forget to speak first. For Noah, yes, God spoke first. He dropped that idea of building that ark directly into his probably very-stunned lap. He wasn’t looking for it. He wasn’t asking for something big to do for God (like David did in 1 Chronicles 17). God found him.

I’m not saying that I’m Noah by any means, but if you go according to the conversion numbers of Noah-years to modern years, our waiting story lasted longer than his building story. And, similar to Noah, I wasn’t looking for it. Sometimes, God gives big dreams to the ones who ask for them. Other times, He gives the hardest things that will yield the most glory to the ones who are entirely unsuspecting that it’s even happening.

My point is: that one big ten-year-long prayer I didn’t ask for was the thing that led me to this point, on the other side of our miracle-babes, asking God what’s next. He set the tone. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But it feels a whole lot like people tell me unmedicated childbirth is like (don’t ask me—I took the epidural and would have taken the lady’s next to me if she didn’t want it). Once you experience the euphoria of watching God move, you forget how hard the process was. I mean, you know how hard it was. But you’ll do it all over again.

And my point to my point? It’s that I never would have asked God what my next big ten-year prayer is if He hadn’t dropped the first one in my lap.

Noah after the ark? Technically, he bore fruit. He farmed the ground, tilled the soil, planted the seed, did all the things that he was supposed to do, and he waited a few harvests for the fruit. Eventually, it came. The fruit was there—Genesis 9:21 is proof of that. But he didn’t ask God what to do with it.

That’s the crux of all of this. It’s in the heaviness that often comes in the silence after the ark, after a huge answer to a long-awaited prayer and what you do with that silence.

He speaks, yes, absolutely. But sometimes, His silence lingers because He wants you to start the conversation.

And so, I circle back to Genesis 8:15. I imagine God opening the door for Noah that He shut Himself in 7:16. I imagine the familiarity that Noah felt in that moment—you know the one I’m talking about, when God is speaking in that way that only you know? I read between the lines of the text, feeling the familiarity of the way that His Spirit speaks to me, like a weighted blanket marked all over with a scent I can’t name.

This isn’t the end for you, He whispers to Noah, He whispers to me. The same thing He’ll whisper thirty years from now, if I’m still on this earth, my children grown. The same thing He whispers to you. There is still more life after this. And you will abound in it.

It’s not the end.

You still have breath in your lungs. So, instead of chasing the things that fill the void of what filled your spirit then? Instead of reaching for the phone, scrolling through the posts, popping that gummy, filling that glass, adding one more thing to your cart. Maybe today, you pause and whisper back: Okay, God. What do we do next?