The tall, weathered man stares across endless dunes of sand, head cocked as though listening for a voice. He clutches his coarse robe with calloused hands, oblivious to the hot desert wind whipping around the once-regal body. Tiny whorls of sand bite at his sandaled feet, mocking his concentration. Is this the sound of a voice he once knew, or is it the wind? Looking upward for answers, all he sees is sky, bleached and stripped of moisture-giving clouds. It is the wind—always the wind—whispering to Moses of interrupted hopes and defeated dreams. Forty years in the desert—forty years of waiting. Once a prince, now a hired hand tending sheep. What irony! What a paradox! Oh, Moses, we want to say, don’t give up; don't despair. We know the end of the story. God hasn’t forgotten you. You're in the desert for a purpose—a purpose that cannot be accomplished without your willingness to endure, to persevere and to overcome. You have a higher calling on your life, a calling beyond anything you could hope or imagine. We know the end of the story. And yet, as fellow travelers in a foreign land, how often do we lament our own deserts—those harsh, dry places of the spirit where dashed hopes and broken dreams lie in shards at our feet, damaged, from a human perspective, beyond repair and recovery. It’s a place where our innermost being cries out for refreshment and relief from the harshness of the place to which we've been called for a season. Dryness of spirit, confusion of purpose, the dark night of the soul—many descriptions for a universal problem. Unanswered prayers, the loss of a loved one, the death of a dream. Each is a desert; each must be visited alone. Whatever our particular desert, it has the power to surprise, oppress and discourage. The reality of the road to the Cross is that we will encounter unanticipated detours and sharp curves that stun and threaten to overwhelm—sudden hazards that can either shrivel and shrink our faith or mature and strengthen our spirit. The longer we walk with the Lord, the more we can anticipate a trip to the desert. The difference in our journey and Moses'? We don't know the end of our story. The Christian walk calls for strength and dedication of purpose. Unfortunately, many of us tend to be fast-food Christians. We want faith to come as easily and quickly as a Big Mac and a large fry. But eternal lessons require hard places. Eternal lessons come neither easily nor quickly. I found myself in a desert not long ago. Somehow in the busy-ness of church and family, job and civic responsibilities, I lost my vision. The high ideals and hopes of younger days were faded, the victims of time—unrelenting time. And God needed my attention. So He sent me into the desert—a place, from my vantage point, of tiresome, unremitting tedium. A place where my perceived talents and abilities lay dormant and useless. Daily I watched for rain. Daily I cried out for relief. But I received no answer. I felt no comforting presence, no soothing breeze. Only aloneness. And my incessant demands for deliverance drowned out the whispers of the Holy Spirit. Finally, wearied of my own protests and complaints, I paused to listen. I searched the scriptures, and my parched and withered spirit was revived by the words of Isaiah: "Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the Lord and rely on his God” (Isaiah 50:10). My soul lightened when I read the words of the Psalmist: “But I trust in you, 0 Lord; I say,'You are my God. My times are in your hands.’" Gradually my spirit quieted. Then from the ancients of the past came the revelation: "This thing is from me," (I Kings 12:24, KJV). And then I knew. I was in the desert, but this desert was from God. This desert was part of a greater plan for my life—a place of solitude and seclusion prepared by the loving hands of a Father who knew my spiritual limitations and my physical needs. What I viewed as a place of separation from God and unanswered prayer was the very place where I could draw the closest to Him. My failure to see my desert through spiritual eyes cost me the peace and rest that God promises in abundance. Yes, the desert is a hard place, but it is the schoolroom of the heart. And even more than harsh conditions and dearth of comfort, the desert is God’s gift of love. For it is there that we learn the hard lessons—but the eternal ones. .

Shari Buie