When Sabbath Looks Like a Desert
This article was first published in The Commonplace Journal, January 2025
“The caravan moves slowly across the terrible desert.”*
I read the words from Isaiah 30:6 again. I pictured myself in that desert, shading my eyes to see the distant movement. Tears filled my eyes. They were not tears from a soft and sympathetic place inside me; they were the sweat of toiling through a parched place—drops that fell to my Father. Yes, the desert is terrible, and the caravan seems sinister. See how it creeps nearer!
The summer of 2024 was a time of enforced sabbath for me as I healed from adrenal fatigue. And I thought I was okay with resting and waiting for healing. But as weeks and months dragged by, I realized it was not just my body that needed healing. My heart and soul felt like they were slowly dying. Where I had once deeply engaged with life and beauty, a dullness and dryness had settled in. My faith and courage felt far away, “left like a…tattered banner on a distant mountaintop,” to use Isaiah’s words in chapter 30 verse 17. My feet were stumbling in a desert place, and it scared me.
The desert of Sabbath felt unkind. “How was your day?” my husband would ask, and my answer was, “I’m okay, but no more.” I hated feeling like there was no thriving or growth. Instead, I felt wilted and weak. I did not feel courageous or valiant. The motions of living demanded much of me daily, and getting away from the struggle wasn’t an option. In my desert, it felt like God was not close, but rather standing at a distance, waiting to see what I would do with His testing.
Are there good things to be found in the desert? Does God truly understand, and is He near? Can He furnish water in the wilderness?
There is not a shortcut through the desert. As with many things in life, the only way out is through. Many days, my thanksgiving felt forced and ritualistic as I chose to remain on the pathways of praise even while the questions circled in my head and pulsed in my heart.
One of the most important things I learned in my desert place was that God is there. He has not abandoned me here. I am not in this place for punishment or disgrace—this is a time of refinement, of preparation to receive His gifts. A dear friend, over seventy years old, said to me, “You can please God even in this place.” These were words my weary heart needed to hear. I am still His creation, His daughter. He still rejoices over me and moves toward me over the sandy dryness. The desert place is part of my story, but it is not who I am.
And perhaps I need to take another look at the caravan as it moves across the desert. Perhaps this is a caravan of blessing bringing help, not a sinister foe coming to overwhelm me. I am beginning to hope that its slow movement is not the creeping of an enemy, but rather the measured movement of an unhurried miracle. Perhaps the caravan is bearing precious things. And surely precious things are worth waiting for. If I never experienced the long parching of desert sabbaths, would I know the great wonder of the “gleaming of the sun on new grass after rain”? (2 Samuel 23:4)
For God promises that the desert will blossom. This killing dryness will not ultimately ruin His perfect plans for my joy. Isaiah 51:3—“The Lord will comfort Israel again and have pity on her ruins. Her desert will blossom like Eden, her barren wilderness like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness will be found there. Songs of thanksgiving will fill the air.” I put my own name in instead of Israel, and again I weep. I look around me. Can even my desert blossom like Eden? But He said so.
And so I claim promises like this from Isaiah 35—“Say to those with fearful hearts, Be strong, and do not fear, for your God is coming…to save you…Springs will gush forth in the wilderness, and streams will water the wasteland. The parched ground will become a pool, and springs of water will satisfy the thirsty land.” (verses 4,6b, &7) He is able to provide water in the wilderness! He offers the hope of abundance on every level—physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.
As I fix my eyes on the God of promises, raindrops of mercy begin to fall, and suddenly the desert’s face begins to change. Green hope springs up about my feet, and ahead of me, colors of vitality and joy erupt. Looking over my shoulder along the dusty trail, as far back as I can see are way-markers of faithfulness and love. I am beginning to see how His promises can come true. My desert is being transformed by His overwhelming mercy.
I don’t know if all will be made perfectly well on this imperfect earth. But someday, there will be no desert. Instead, there will be comfort, blossoming, joy, gladness, and singing. Even when my parched heart cries for rain, I must believe the eternal Sabbath is coming, where the desert is past, where rest is hydrated and beautiful, where all will forever be well.
The caravan has overtaken me. The packs are opened, and they are filled with great bundles of comfort, an increased store of compassion for others, and wonder-inducing riches of mercy and faithfulness. I am weeping once more, but now the tears are soft rivers of gratefulness that flow from a heart that has been tended, enriched, and yes, even watered through the desert sabbath.
*All Scripture quotations are taken from the NLT version of the Holy Bible
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