The case for multiple deserts

we can be out of one but still in another

Going from in the desert to out of the desert is such a tempting transition to declare.

Deserts are not where we want to be. When we’re in them we want to be out of them and it’s easy to convince ourselves that we are out, that we’ve reached the other side. We want a clear transition, a definite moment in time where we go from lost and weary to emerged and triumphant. I know that I have engineered fantasies about being “out of the desert” before. I love the feeling of looking back and seeing a confused, dark reality that is no longer the case.

It hit me today that sometimes we can find ourselves in multiple deserts. One circumstance can resolve while another may continue to hold us under its perpetual dry heat. But, at the risk of inconsistency, it feels best for us to declare ourselves out of the desert, the trial is finally over. Even though only part of it is. It’s possible to have one foot in the desert and one foot out. Each foot matters, each is part of our lives.

That’s the spot where I find myself.

For the past four years, my family’s geographic location has felt like a desert. We deconstructed, left church, changed church, faded away from friends, grasped at friends, tried to make friends for our kids, etc. The desert stemmed from deconstruction, from asking the questions that weren’t supposed to be asked, and by being bothered by things that weren’t supposed to be talked about. Four years ago, I saw this through rose colored glasses. Surely, by being true to our convictions, we would emerge from a time of loneliness to a time of thriving, vibrant community. Surely by leaving church we would find church. Mark 10:29, no one who has left house or brothers or father or mother for the sake of the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times more in this life and the life to come. Subconscious belief in (my interpretations of) that promise gave me hope.

It just didn’t happen. We tried nine churches in our county with increasing amounts of discouragement. We found one wonderful community an hour south of us, but it was still an hour south. Idealism eventually caved to the reality of commuting every Sunday.

I teach private violin lessons and I struggled to gain more than one student each year, perhaps due to overall orientation of the community we live in: sports for kids, manufacturing for adults. Broad strokes, but true nonetheless.

No local church, few friends, not seeing a clear transition out of being an at-home mom, being alone in a sea of questions and doubt…it was absolutely a desert.

Last August (’23), one thing changed. I went to a retreat in a city I’d never been to before hosted by podcast hosts I only “knew” through my earbuds. But the retreat promised to give communal space to grieve sadness while holding joy. So, I got in my car with my four-year desert (well, I guess it was only three years at that point), and made myself walk through the door into the retreat house. That was the first trickle of water in the wilderness. I met people that sacredly opened their lives to each other. As I witnessed and participated, I cried more tears than I had in years. Something holy and healing happened. A spark of hope led to an epiphany that loneliness did not have to have the last say. We are not meant to be alone, nor are we victims of loneliness. The healing presence of the body of Christ is here in the world. Hope is not lost.  

I went home from the retreat and talked with my husband, who had also been feeling discontent. We agreed that change needed to happen, and we were ready to do what it took to find it.

To make the rest of the story short, he found out his company was opening a new branch in South Carolina, in an area that was vibrant with culture and art. Not to mention that is so, much, warmer, in, winter! He applied; he got the job. In the process of enrolling our kids in school, I stumbled my way into an interview for their orchestra teacher position. Now I have a job. We’ve sold our house and bought a house. We have churches lined up to visit, ones that are so very promising. We might even just make the jump from post-evangelical to Anglican. Or Episcopal. Ask me in a few months.

Things like this don’t just happen. They’re not supposed to line up this neatly. On one hand, it freaks me out. There’s always a honeymoon period before reality hits. On the other hand, I rejoice that one desert is over, and we are embarking on a new life. That feels extraordinarily privileged and I’m still working out how to live in submissive thankfulness for the circumstances.

With all this exciting change, it would be so tempting to say that the desert is over. The wilderness has passed, and life has renewed.

That’s where the idea of multiple deserts comes in. While I rejoice in the upcoming newness, I still feel the dryness of the faith-desert. A desert I keep thinking I’ve come out of only to find myself back in again.

I’ll be at peace with Jesus and then be hiding from him.

I’ll pray with my kids one night and then not do so again for a month.

I’ll garner all sorts of epiphanies and convictions in my head and then feel like a fool when I try to explain them.

I’m closer than ever to becoming reunited with Jesus, but the wilderness just isn’t over yet. I know it’s unreasonable to expect a faith where nothing is confusing or doubtful. But it doesn’t seem unreasonable to expect a faith where there is an undercurrent of peace along with the doubt.

In reality, we can be both out of the desert and in the desert. We’re not always all in or all out. There’s a concept in psychology where a “win” in one area of life generates wins in other, unrelated areas. Something as simple as throwing an three pointer early in the day has the potential to make someone better at something as disparate as woodworking later that night. Confidence breeds confidence. I’m kind of hoping that might be true for the celebration/desert reality I find myself in today. One foot out and one foot in. The hope of peace with Jesus the ultimate goal.