I have taken to calling this last year my desert year. “Sometimes,” I tell a friend, “I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head and I can’t remember who I am or what I’m doing here.”“The desert will do that to you,” my friend says. “Just look at the Israelites.”
When the Israelites left Egypt, they left behind the only life they had known for over four hundred years. Sure, it was a hard life; a slave’s life. But it was their life. They knew when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed at night. They knew what was expected of them and what they could expect in return. In the desert, though, all bets were off. The Israelites didn’t know where they were going or when they would get there. Some days, they didn’t even know where their next meal was coming from.
I can relate.
What's more, in the desert, my friend points out, the Israelites didn’t relax and enjoy the change of scenery. They didn’t even thank God for saving them. Instead, they shook their fists at God and complained. "How could you?" "You promised." "What gives?" They even begged to be sent back to Egypt because the snacks were better there.
I can relate.
And in the desert, the people of Israel didn’t rely on the God of their fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. They turned to false gods and made idols of people and things they thought would save them and turn their life around.
I can totally relate.
"But, in the end,” my friend says, “it wasn’t the Israelites’ idols or their complaining or even what they knew or had figured out that brought them to the Promised Land. It was the desert. The desert alone brought God's chosen people to the place they belonged, to the land of blessing.”
“I hope so,” I say. I hope so.
photo: Amelia Lin, Chihuahua Desert, Mexico.
