The Lord will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail. --Isaiah 58:11
(Have I mentioned lately how much I love the prophet/ poet Isaiah?)
Sometimes, the desert can seem particularly arid. The dust kicks up and stifles my breath, fills my eyes till they water. (Yeah, that's the ticket. It's the dust making me tear up.)
There are days-- and there are days. And sometimes, those days become weeks. Days and weeks when it just seems as though God has taken me to the curb, gone back inside, locked the door and turned out the lights.
Places or activities that have brought solace in the past-- time spent in prayer or reading, hanging around the usual friends-- serve to mark time, but don't even begin to quench the thirst in my soul. It seems as if the harder I look, the less I see. Like straining to see in a really dark room, or trying to drive in a dense, heavy fog.
It feels cold and dark-- and very lonely. Even in August in Ohio. (Ever been here? I imagine you have.)
Then this amazing thing starts to happen.
Suddenly, in the midst of life, new friends start appearing. Old friends emerge in a new light, or a new context, offering a fresh perspective (or a smack upside the head).
Those folks whom you've known forever, even though you just met-- or never met-- show up at your doorstep . . . or on the telephone . . . or across a crowded street. Their words wash over, refreshing, cooling, rejuvenating a parched soul. God is so good that way.
And yes, it's been that kind of week. Until today.
The climate had become a bit dry. Cactuses and camels were part of my spiritual landscape. I felt like I just wanted to pull away, take a break for me, but couldn't manage to do so. I needed to write.
This morning, relief was in the air, the scent of long-sought moisture on the breeze. ("They" say that smell is ozone. To me, it smells more like hope.) A phone conversation with a wonderful Brother whom I have known, it seems, forever-- but just met, face-to-face, about ten days ago-- washed away some self-doubts that had been clinging to my heart like so much filth, helped me remember what this journey is really about. That was awesome. The prickly cactus began to bloom. I began again to glimpse the beauty of the desert.
And then, a scant few hours later, an encounter with someone I hadn't seen in months (or longer), and almost the first words from his mouth were, "I read your stuff sometimes. Keep it up. It helps. Keep stickin' it to 'em." (I admit: I am not completely sure what that means. But it sounds like a good thing, wouldn't you agree?)
More conversation. More discussion of what's broken, not just in the church, but in education. In the world. Cool, cool rain on my parched soul. Arms open wide, head tilted back in gratitude.
And suddenly, that sermon I am writing for next week has a direction. The "stuff" that was clouding my mind has mostly cleared. Oh, sure, I still have an extra furry granddaughter who doesn't want to hang around me or go home with her human mama-- but it's okay. She won't stay forever. (Seriously. She won't. lol)
So the moral of the story is . . . hang in there. Jesus went willingly into the desert, knowing the Spirit was with him, guiding and comforting him in the dark and difficult days.
All forty of them. Hang in there. Or maybe-- let go. Just let it go. Let Love reign (and rain).
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