Waiting. Texture. Desert. Time.
How far will we wander in order to go around that part of the story we want to avoid?
What does it take before we follow the contour of turning, to trust our riverbed longing, to receive provision from a source we don’t expect?
There’s a learning curve to trust–to reaching out and looking up; raking fingers across the grit of our deep need for provision.
And I wonder where your own lenten journey has been taking you.
What are you avoiding so, that it drives you into the desert?
What path is being carved out in you by wind and water and time?
And what do we make of our journeys together?–journeys cultural and agricultural; journeys of avoiding neighbors, making them enemies; journeys of faithfulness and breaking faith as we seek to find some way to come through alive, shaded by incarnate spectre of rising sea, eroding soils, and toxic concentrations of the byproducts of our own misguided wanderings through the world.
Where will you look, when you go looking for provision?
Who’s body is beside you keeping time, as you trace out the texture of this journey?