Courage to Let Water Back into the Desert

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

A slim little book of prayers sits in the corner of my desk. Written by Irish poet-theologian Padraig O Tuama, it contains one of my favorite liturgies. It begins like this:

“Courage comes from the heart, and we are always welcomed by God, the Croi [heart] of all being.”

I encountered these words at a retreat last summer and have contemplated them many times since. They feel warm and big; clear enough to encourage, mysterious enough for wonder. When I rehearse them, they feel like stepping stones towards confidence in the God they describe. A God who strengthens with welcome.

In a Substack post earlier this week, Richard Beck discusses the metaphor of “the memory of water.” In certain deserts, there are physical imprints where water used to run; a testament to the abundance of the past. Likewise, in our lives’ (metaphorical) deserts, we hold memories of goodness. Wholeness. Signposts towards times where water flowed, and joy left its mark. Beck encourages his readers to remember these joys, to speak of them to one another, and to hold onto memory until water returns.

At this point in life, I’m seeing the desert start to recede. There is hope threatening to hydrate the landscape. I use the word “threatening,” because believing this feels risky. What if I’m wrong? What if it’s all an illusion?

“Courage comes from the heart…”

I want to have courage to let water back into the desert.  Courage to embrace the good even if it’s not a straight, unwavering path back towards wholeness. Courage to not be cynical.

Padraig’s prayer goes on to say this:

“We bear witness to our faith…”

When I look at streams of water around me, I find a common thread binding them together: strength from observing other peoples’ faith. My family is almost two months into our Anglican experiment, and I’m finding strength in the silent witness of the people I’m coming to know.

I see the woman kneeling in prayer three rows ahead of me, and I love that she doesn’t feel the need to wait for “the right moment” to kneel.

I listen to the pastor and hear a faith with a rich and restful timbre.

I see the intentionality with which families come each morning and I’m in awe that none of this is by accident.

Each stream nudges me to open the gate and let them hydrate the desert. Church is happening again and it’s happening in the way my soul has been longing for. The streams of water are pointing to the need for courage:

Courage to receive the welcome of God.

Courage to believe in goodness of Jesus.

Courage to trust that relationships will build over time.

Courage to listen to Scripture without closing my ears.

Courage to pray without cringing.

Really, just courage to come back to the Living Water.

Followers of Jesus are beautifully vital to each other’s faith. We don’t have to be explicitly quoting scripture to impart strength- worshiping in the physical presence of one another is powerful on its own.

I’m tired of lingering in the desert because of past disappointments in the Church and out of anticipation of future faith setbacks. Which brings me back to the warm, safe words I started with: ‘Courage comes from the heart, and we are always welcomed by God…”  

(This is the book the prayer is from, and I have the folks at Gravity Commons, Ben Sternke and Matt Tebbe, to thank for the discovery of the book. There is a wonderful online community there you can join for free and you won’t be disappointed.)