Wildness.
Wild lands.
Untamed and untouched by cultivating hands.
When you find yourself in forgotten places, do you feel abandoned yourself?
I do.
But what if...
What if Yahweh loves a desert? Could He love those in it, too?
What if the wilderness is a place He leads those whom He loves? His own children even?
In The Land Between, Jeff Manion writes:
“I hope that God's mercy in the past will give sustaining faith for the future... I hope with all my heart that I can trust God when new heartache crashes into our lives... I know that this is more easily seen through the lens of time and healing.”
I write not as someone cleanly and comfortably out of the wilderness, but as someone wrestling to find faith within it.
An Israelite.
I've been in the desert before. And I am back again.
Ten years ago, in a transition between provinces and vocations, worldviews and communities, I can testify with resounding certainty how God met me. Yet, it is easy to forget.
Plus, this time feels different. There's more shame precisely because I've been here before.
Shouldn't I be better now? Shouldn't I have learned something?
I grow impatient. I'm tired of returning to lack and need. I wish I didn't have to feel trust tested again. I wish I wasn't prone to discouragement. And I am embarrassed that I still need to cry out to God.
Crying even sounds too polished; when in truth, I am screaming at Him.
I oscillate between feeling that none of it matters and a deep, guttural urge to tell the cosmos about my pain.
Am I lost? I am.
Have I been abandoned after all? I don’t know.
But I do know I am no different than my ancestors, who asked for meat. Egypt had vegetables and fish, and the Israelites longed for it.
I, too, would love to be financially secure, to own assets indicative of success, and have experiences my wealth afforded.
But I am in the wilderness.
Part of me would prefer God take this all away right now. Part of me sees life in this moment as only frustration. Yet, in my heart of hearts, I know telling God all of this is good.
Pain continues the conversation.
Moses knew something about this.
When leading Israel became too much, when the people cried out for meat and Moses could no longer carry them, he told God plainly the burden was too heavy. He asked why God had brought this trouble upon him. He even asked God to take his life rather than leave him beneath its weight.
I feel the impossibility of my burden, and the frustration of trying to manually remove myself from the season God has placed me in.
This whole experience feels like punishment. So I ask if God is listening, I question His character, and demand, “What have I done to displease you?”
“At once the Spirit sent him out into the wilderness.”
These words describing Jesus come to mind.
The Spirit of God led Jesus.
The wilderness was not evidence Jesus had taken a wrong turn. He was Beloved in wild lands.
Beloved and hungry. Beloved and tempted.
Things begin to shrivel, wither, and fall off. Identities are the first to go.
Owner. Provider. Successful. Capable. Independent.
There are identities that flourish when rain falls but they don't survive the desert. I try to prop them up like a wilted plant.
True identity whispers: “You are beloved. Will you abide?”
“I sustain you,” the Creator calls again.
Is manna enough? Or do you, like me, scoff at the small things?
Comparing. Aching for the better beyond. Israel looked backward to Egypt. I look sideways at other people's lives. Forward to the life I think I should have by now.
I want the big house. The contract. The savings account. The certainty. I want to know where this is going and how long it will take.
But I am in the wilderness.
“I have had enough,” says a hungry, tired and scared Elijah. Then he falls asleep. It would appear, however, that God would prefer him to carry on. Elijah wakes to bread. And water. Not condemnation. But not a five-year plan either. A cake of bread and a jar of water.
Perhaps rest is not the absence of hunger, but receiving enough for today.
Perhaps it is admitting we cannot keep this afloat.
Perhaps it is throwing our anxieties and frustrations at God because we have exhausted our alternatives.
We are weary and burdened; He says, come to me.
We have anxieties and frustrations; we are told to throw them at God.
We are hungry; He gives daily bread.
For me, the question boils down to: Does God care about my loss and inability to bring about success?
For you, it may be poor health or sleepless nights. A faithless child? Perhaps betrayal? A grief?
You and I, we journey together now through the decision to abide as we cry out in our pain.
To rely on our Creator for communion, our daily bread.
To rest in the knowledge we are beloved.
And to carry on.
