“Love seeks the desert because the desert is where man is handed over to God, stripped bare of his country, his friends, his fields, his home. In the desert a person neither possesses what he loves, nor is he possessed by those who love him; he is totally submitted to God in an immense and intimate encounter.” -Madeleine Delbrel
My feet crunch along the gravel of a hidden path by the hidden river in the city I now call home. I am headed to the riverbank, to the sacred space I was led to a few days ago on my first pilgrimage. My breathing is labored from the heat and my skin is beading with sweat, but still I continue on. The river is far below, obscured by a cliff of sparse trees and foliage on my right and tall grasses on my left, but with each step I am drawn closer towards the sound of its waters.
The path is monotonous much like my even pace upon the crunching gravel. As I progress along the path, the gravel stops and the beaten earth alone tells me where I am to go. Forward, always forward, trusting the steps of those who have gone ahead of me to guide the way, the beaten path proof of their presence. I pray with a deep breath in, a deep breath out, connecting myself to the ground, the trees, to those who have gone before me, to all.
With each step I am slowly being stripped to the nakedness of my soul, being beckoned to let go of all that I have put my identity in and all that I have tried to seize control of. I seek the desert—the renouncing of all in order to taste the communion. The renouncing is painful, the humidity and drenching sweat fitting the spiritual process of submission. I know my God is here, but I fear I’ve cast Godself too far aside in my own mess and broken depravity.
I crave the stillness, the sweet stillness. The intimate communion.
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I am sitting on a large rock in the middle of the rushing river. I breathe in, out. In, out. The waters are rushing and frazzled all around me, reflecting the state of my frenzied soul. Some part of me finds irony that I’m sitting on a still rock in the midst of the chaotic waters—the stillness being what I so desperately want but seem to be unable to have control over obtaining.
I am sitting on a large rock in the middle of the rushing river. I breathe in, out. In, out. The waters are rushing and frazzled all around me, reflecting the state of my frenzied soul. Some part of me finds irony that I’m sitting on a still rock in the midst of the chaotic waters—the stillness being what I so desperately want but seem to be unable to have control over obtaining.
On this rock I am raw to the touch, and I cry out to be delivered from this seemingly self-inflicted hell. I cry and I pray and I cry and I pray and I cry. I cry because I know stillness is within, and that the way to peace is to surrender. I cry because even though I know this to be true, I can’t figure out how to surrender. I am desperate, just in want of the stillness that comes with the surrender. Be still, just be still. Just do it. Just get over it. The flashbacks come steady and quick, and I feel panic mounting within me. I try the deep breaths—in, out, in out—with no avail. Tears shake my being. Anxiety courses through my veins like the water on the river, and I see no way out of this seemingly self-inflicted hell. My God. My God.
This is my desert.
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Soon there is silence.
Quiet tears. Shaky breaths.
My head is drawn towards the center of the sky.
Who are You that made the birds, and me?
Who are You that made the birds?
Who are You?
Silent, awe-struck tears cascade down my cheeks.
The stillness, the communion, is here.
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