A Prayer for the Wilderness

Several years ago, I sat on a cliff and stared out at the vast emptiness, the endless sand, brown and beige extending as far as my eye could see. I was somewhere in the middle of the wilderness — literally. Two weeks in Israel brought the Bible to life in ways that are hard to capture in words, as if all that was black and white and so beautifully true remained true — but turned technicolor.

Suddenly, I could smell a chorus of spices singing, rich and vibrant, in the Jerusalem market as I made my way toward the temple.

The briny air filled my lungs as I rode across the Sea of Galilee, deep blue waves lapping against the wooden boat.

Bright, beautiful flowers took my breath away in Gethsemane — an unexpected visual of life from death.

Large fish swam around my legs as I walked into the Jordan River.

I stood in the Elah Valley, where David killed Goliath, and bent to pick up a smooth stone from the stream.

It was incredible in one thousand ways I could talk about for the rest of my days, but lately, one moment in particular keeps coming to mind.

No matter which direction I turned, the wilderness stretched on and on and on. I sat down on the rocky cliff overlooking the desert, stared at the mountains and valleys of sand, and searched for signs of life. I strained my eyes until tears filled them, a silent prayer echoing inside, a quiet wondering of just how long I’ll be wandering through my own wilderness.

Nearly a decade before, I wrote the words of Isaiah 43:18-19 on a little green sticky note. And now, nearly a decade after the wind whipped my hair around and dried my tear-filled eyes, the somewhat faded slip of paper sits framed on my bookshelf, a visual of a promise that greets me every day:

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”
Isaiah 43:18-19 NIV

Many years have passed, and in many ways, I’m still there, still somewhere in the middle of the wilderness. My hair is tangled from the wind, my cheeks tear-stained, and my hope bruised. I’m still searching for beauty in the barren places, still praying for a miracle. What I know now that I didn’t know then, though, is that this wilderness will stretch on beyond what I think I can take… but when it does, when I can’t take another step, God’s with-ness will carry me through.

It may sound like a cliche or a nice turn of phrase, but if you’re in a wasteland, that reality becomes the running river. If you’re in a storm, it’s the lifeboat. It’s not that the waves cease or you suddenly find yourself on the other side of the dry and desolate desert, but that in your grief and your exhaustion, in your worry and your fear, in your pain and your loneliness, you aren’t alone.

Your throat may be parched, your feet blistered, your body weary, and your heart aching, but you will be carried through to the new.

Somehow, someway, some day you’ll look back and see the way that was made and the Friend that refused to leave your side, come hell or high water or desert storm.

Truthfully, there are parts of my life where it seems like the wilderness is going to get the last word. I don’t understand God’s timing, but discovering that He is here in this place, too? Emmanuel, God with us, even in the wilderness? It is itself a miracle.

And so I’m learning to pray for what seems impossible… and to say at the very same time that I want God more than the answered prayer, that I want the Giver more than the gift, the Way Maker more than the way made.

For now, for as long as I’m wandering and waiting and watching, it sounds like this prayer on repeat. Sometimes I wrestle with the words, sometimes they’re just a whisper, and sometimes I weep through the lines, but always, thank God for God, He meets me here.

A prayer for the wilderness:
God, give us eyes to see and hearts that believe You never lead us into the desert to desert us. Remind us, here in the valley, in the wild, in the wilderness that stretches on, that You’re a God who comes close, stays beside, and walks with. Help us want the Miracle Worker more than the miracle itself, and also, Lord, please, would You please make a way? We know You can; we ask that You will. You’re the God of Through, the God of with-ness, and the God who sustains, and so we’ll say You’re good no matter where You lead — desert sand or Promised Land. One day, one step, one breath at a time, grant us strength for today and hope for tomorrow. We will dare to believe it: The story might include time in the wilderness, but that’s never where the story ends. You will be faithful to be faithful. You’re going to bring us all the way Home. Amen.