Camped here, in a small fabric tent, I am at first paralysed. Days pass, made motionlesss by my quarantine, I wait and wait.
Unidentified mornings pass, empty evenings stretch. Sometimes I glance briefly outside, catching a glimpse of my surroundings before retreating back into the safety of what I have come to know. Rejecting the offerings of my surroundings I remain, still, as vacant days pass.
This morning, however, something seems different. Maybe it is my old vigour returning, or maybe inquisitiveness is overruling fear. Maybe I am frustrated by the confines of this tent, maybe I am desperate to feel the sun on my face once more. Whatever the motives, I stretch aching limbs and rise unsteadily.
Hesitating at the entrance I consider stepping back. My legs are unused to movement and my eyes blink in the sunlight. I am surprised that, instead of burning with anger at it’s daring to shine, somewhere deep in myself I am comforted. I am quieted by it’s certainty, reassured that there is still day.
I am disorientated. I have slept long hours at odd intervals. I have lain awake through protracted silent nights. I have whiled away hours staring mutely into space. I have fought to grasp fleeting moments of hope. I have lost track of date and time, shunning the normality of the calendar.
Outside the confined, quiet tent, I am shocked by how exposed I feel away from its speechless cameraderie. The vastness of the wilderness is overwhelming. I feel like a speck, unnoticed, unseen, undetected. I could scream and no-one would hear, I could remain hidden in my tent and no-one would find me, surely I could disspear?
I cannot yet allow myself to consider the circumstances that brought me here, the journey to this battered tent, deserted on this sandy plateau. I have begun to grasp, however, after a hundred tiny signs, that none of this was accidental, that somewhere in all the anonymity is the fingerprint of a loving God. There are moments when I sense him reaching down to his beloved, bringing me to a place of aridity and tears and yet sending angels to watch over me. There have been definite times when I have caught his determined whisper, over the ferocity of a desert storm or the deafening hollering of solitude.
I realise that the sun I thought would burn me, has shone on as a symbol of warmth and hope. The sand that first dismayed me with measureless abundance, has reminded me of His plentitude. This quarantine, instead of orchestrating despair, increasing shows me the reality of grace, the meaning of hope, the all-pervading nature of joy. I am here and I don’t understand it all, but He is more than enough, and there are priceless lessons to be learned in this place.
Pondering all of this, at the entrance to my tent, I notice something shimmering nearby, that I did not perceive before. I hesitate again, to explore will mean to leave the relative safety of this entrance, to abandon the feel of dependable polyester, to trust myself to stand up straight and take a risk. What if there are snakes? What if I get lost? What if it’s a trap?
To not know would be to always wonder, I tell myself. And summoning up the dormant shreds of courage I possess, I take a step. My mind stuttering unsophisticated prayers for help as I walk.
As I walk forward the shimmering increases, as if the sun is pointing towards this place. I wonder if it will be a cruel mirage, and whether I will have the strength to make it back if so. Is the risk worth it?
Rubbing my eyes, the scene remains, and clarity increases as I continue onwards. Soon I can identify the scene, and though shocked by it’s reality, I am reminded of old promises. I quicken my pace, encouraged by the sight. For the first time in days the hope of a future outside of this place ignites within me, much more than a fleeting spark that dies out before I can be warmed by it’s truth.
Reaching my destination, I fall to my knees, breathless and hopeful, uncertain and thankful, willing this not to be a dream. For a stream has appeared in my desert, cutting a confident path through the desert sands. Not a fading, insignificant trickle, but an abounding, prolific torrent.
Shocked at my own bravery I plunge my hands into the flow. I am refreshed immediately by it’s coolness. I bend downwards, feeling the splashes on my face before drinking deeply from cupped hands. Even after my deep thirst subsides, I remain, transfixed by the gushing waters, enlivened by their singing current.
The stream symbolises so much: the way God’s presence can pervade even the darkest and dryest of places. The reminder that Living Water from him can sate every thirst. The knowledge that I am not unnoticed here, that even from the Valley of Sheol, He brings life and resurrection.
I am immediately aware that the landscape of this place has changed. That, though necessary, my days passed hiding in the tent are over now. There God’s providence came, with raisin cakes and tending ravens. Here, it will be found in new ways. My heart is brimming over with joy I return to my tent and gather the few possessions I entered it with. And then I walk back to the stream, and begin to follow it to the next phase of this journey.
