The Israelites spent 40 years wandering in the wilderness. Jesus spent 40 days in the desert.

Why should we assume we will never spend time lost in our own wildernesses, our own deserts?

The times where everything is dry, dead, or at least no growth to be seen. No water to quench our thirst.

Perhaps even a forced fasting.

Yet even though we may not see life in the cracked, colorless land doesn’t mean it’s dead. Perhaps the roots of what little vegetation we see dig deep, sucking greedily from the aquifers, full and plentiful of pure, life-giving water. We may not see any growth at first, but we are nonetheless strengthened. To endure.

I’ve been aching to write. Something. Anything. For weeks. Not quite 40 days–not even 30, actually. Yet I still felt as though I was dumped in the middle of a desert. Unable to tell East from West, North from South. Every time I tried to write something, it ended up either gibberish or incomplete. Like spiritual heatstroke.

I can’t claim this entry is any better, but it’s at least less gibberishy than my previous attempts. At least I hope it is… I’ll let you decide, since I’m not exactly unbiased.

At the same time, while I may not be completely out of this desert, as I started writing, I did sense a figurative flower bloom from a crack in the ground. A small glimmer of hope that didn’t turn out to be a mirage.