One thing about the desert? It makes you feel small. Way out here, right in the middle of nothing, I’m tiny and insignificant. My roots just can’t seem to break this impenetrable earth.
Last night it rained. The Heavens cracked WIDE open, and down came the rain. Heaven poured down miraculous relief—both for the parched earth and for this homesick island girl. Something in the rain, and how it dumped from Heaven, helped me to grow, to gain my footing, to strengthen my brittle roots. Water everywhere. An abundance of relief.
This journey with Cardon is proving to be more difficult than I had anticipated (and that’s saying a lot). I’m good at rolling up my sleeves and getting to work, and I expected this experience to be just that, WORK. I just don’t think I’d properly gauged how exhaustive the process would be. I didn’t have an accurate measure of just how chaotic (and maddening) life would become before things would start to get better. School starts Monday, and I had envisioned us being at a very different place by then. But here we are. And there’s not a thing I can do about it. That’s the hardest part. I have ZERO control. No control over when doctors and specialists will be able to see us, no control over heart arrhythmias or borderline EKGs that halt planned treatments, no control over dyslexia diagnoses or literacy centers who won’t return phone calls, no control over uncooperative special ed coordinators at elementary schools. I just feel.so.small. And the problem here is starting to feel.so.huge.
But last night, I was reminded that the rain will come. It will, and it will bring sweet relief and an abundance of clarity, capacity and joy. I know that it will, because I know that God is mindful of me, yes, even me. . . tiny and all alone . . . in the middle of the great big desert.
For now, we’ll seek shade in his grace as we wait for rain.