In the Wilderness - A post for Lent.
“And the spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.” Mark 1:12-13
We’ve pancaked, we’re shriven, and we’re Ashed. Lent now begins and once more we are invited to journey into the wilderness with Jesus as our companion. What will we find there? Beasts or angels, or both? The wilderness probably isn’t complete without a combination of the two. 14 and a half years ago I endured an extended stay in the wilderness, lasting far longer than 40 days and 40 nights. Here’s my short reflection on that experience and what I encountered there.
Early in the morning the taxi driver pulled up outside my apartment block. He sat in the car and waited while I repeatedly climbed up and down two flights of stairs to bring down a pram, a large suitcase, a hold-all, and finally, my infant daughter. The taxi driver said nothing, but then, there was little point in conversation. I was an Englishwoman living in a district of Prague where there were only locals, and I don’t speak Czech. I was leaving my husband and taking my six month old baby daughter with me. There were probably no words anyway.
There was thick silence in the taxi on the way to the airport. I gestured towards the service station with its cash point, so that we might pull over, showing him my empty purse. He grunted and we pulled into the station. I cried silently the rest of the way and the driver gave no indication that he noticed nor even cared.
But you saw. You heard. I didn’t know it then, but looking back, I know that you were beside me. Through it all you watched over me, your spirit a soothing presence that guided me and gave me strength that I never knew I had. You worked through the sleeping child on my lap, that precious gift you’d bestowed upon me. For if I couldn’t break free for myself, I could do it for her.
The wilderness is terrifying in its silent emptiness, but there’s also freedom to be found there. I took what I could carry, which was very little, and I abandoned the rest. Things…so many precious things that once I’d held dear and clung to, and assumed I couldn’t live without. Favourite items of clothing and shoes. Ornaments. Music. Books. My baby’s toys. My graduation photograph. I had no choice but to leave them behind and take only what I needed to get through the immediate future. When you pare it down to its bare bones, you actually need very little at all.
But you saw. You felt my loss. You entered the void left behind by the things I’d lost and you filled it with your presence, until I was permeated by a numbing calm. I became untouchable and it was pure grace.
I wish I’d had a name for you then, when I was alone in the wilderness. But I didn’t know you existed; didn’t realise that there really was such a wondrous reality as God. Through it all, you did not abandon me. Not on the journey in that taxi. Not on the plane afterwards, nor back in England, when I relied on others to sustain me physically, while you – silently, quietly, worked on my spirit.
The wilderness can seem to be an endless landscape of hopelessness, with no beginning or end. I got lost in it for a long time, and couldn’t find my way out. There was no one to hear my screams.
But you heard. You understood and eventually, you showed me the way out. You didn’t leave my side, and you’ve not left it since. Eventually, like arriving in Emmaus, I recognised you for who you are and you lit a fire in my heart. It’s burned steadily ever since. There was no blinding light, no Damascene moment; it was a gradual awakening, an inexorable unveiling as I knocked on the door of faith and asked questions about who you were. I thank you every day for the people who you sent to answer me. I will never not be aware of how you work through others, nor underestimate how you work through me.
Now every year I intentionally return to the wilderness, to remind myself of the lost things and that hollow place that once existed inside me, and which I dared not even question. Now there is you. You and me together in the wilderness. And I will never again be alone.
My prayer for us all this Lent is that we come to know God better through spending time with Him in the wilderness. That we cease to mourn the lost things in our lives and instead find peace and sanctuary in Him. I pray we journey safely in the wilderness. I pray we wrestle with beasts, and have conversations with angels. I pray we stick to the path laid straight before us, and most of all I pray our hearts burn within us, as he talks to us on the road.
Amen.
We’ve pancaked, we’re shriven, and we’re Ashed. Lent now begins and once more we are invited to journey into the wilderness with Jesus as our companion. What will we find there? Beasts or angels, or both? The wilderness probably isn’t complete without a combination of the two. 14 and a half years ago I endured an extended stay in the wilderness, lasting far longer than 40 days and 40 nights. Here’s my short reflection on that experience and what I encountered there.
Early in the morning the taxi driver pulled up outside my apartment block. He sat in the car and waited while I repeatedly climbed up and down two flights of stairs to bring down a pram, a large suitcase, a hold-all, and finally, my infant daughter. The taxi driver said nothing, but then, there was little point in conversation. I was an Englishwoman living in a district of Prague where there were only locals, and I don’t speak Czech. I was leaving my husband and taking my six month old baby daughter with me. There were probably no words anyway.
There was thick silence in the taxi on the way to the airport. I gestured towards the service station with its cash point, so that we might pull over, showing him my empty purse. He grunted and we pulled into the station. I cried silently the rest of the way and the driver gave no indication that he noticed nor even cared.
But you saw. You heard. I didn’t know it then, but looking back, I know that you were beside me. Through it all you watched over me, your spirit a soothing presence that guided me and gave me strength that I never knew I had. You worked through the sleeping child on my lap, that precious gift you’d bestowed upon me. For if I couldn’t break free for myself, I could do it for her.
The wilderness is terrifying in its silent emptiness, but there’s also freedom to be found there. I took what I could carry, which was very little, and I abandoned the rest. Things…so many precious things that once I’d held dear and clung to, and assumed I couldn’t live without. Favourite items of clothing and shoes. Ornaments. Music. Books. My baby’s toys. My graduation photograph. I had no choice but to leave them behind and take only what I needed to get through the immediate future. When you pare it down to its bare bones, you actually need very little at all.
But you saw. You felt my loss. You entered the void left behind by the things I’d lost and you filled it with your presence, until I was permeated by a numbing calm. I became untouchable and it was pure grace.
I wish I’d had a name for you then, when I was alone in the wilderness. But I didn’t know you existed; didn’t realise that there really was such a wondrous reality as God. Through it all, you did not abandon me. Not on the journey in that taxi. Not on the plane afterwards, nor back in England, when I relied on others to sustain me physically, while you – silently, quietly, worked on my spirit.
The wilderness can seem to be an endless landscape of hopelessness, with no beginning or end. I got lost in it for a long time, and couldn’t find my way out. There was no one to hear my screams.
But you heard. You understood and eventually, you showed me the way out. You didn’t leave my side, and you’ve not left it since. Eventually, like arriving in Emmaus, I recognised you for who you are and you lit a fire in my heart. It’s burned steadily ever since. There was no blinding light, no Damascene moment; it was a gradual awakening, an inexorable unveiling as I knocked on the door of faith and asked questions about who you were. I thank you every day for the people who you sent to answer me. I will never not be aware of how you work through others, nor underestimate how you work through me.
Now every year I intentionally return to the wilderness, to remind myself of the lost things and that hollow place that once existed inside me, and which I dared not even question. Now there is you. You and me together in the wilderness. And I will never again be alone.
My prayer for us all this Lent is that we come to know God better through spending time with Him in the wilderness. That we cease to mourn the lost things in our lives and instead find peace and sanctuary in Him. I pray we journey safely in the wilderness. I pray we wrestle with beasts, and have conversations with angels. I pray we stick to the path laid straight before us, and most of all I pray our hearts burn within us, as he talks to us on the road.
Amen.
Amen!
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