It all looks the same. Fields split wide open, clusters of rusting cars and square houses bending with the weight of the earth. Buttes appear in the distance, but I can’t seem to get close. A hazy sky mutes the miles, and dry dust kicks up behind the tires of my Jeep Wrangler. Along stretches of dirt and brown, flat except for periodic clumps of hills, old towns litter the county highways of east Oregon.
I’m looking for a way to get past the flat and find the elevation on my afternoon adventure before crossing back into Idaho for a week-long sports camp with the ministry for which I work. As each minute passes, I wonder what I am doing. I’ve been driving in this unfamiliar state for upwards of an hour and don’t see any good return on my investment. I contemplate turning back and heading to the hotel when out of the corner of my eye I see a sign for Lake Owyhee State Park. I know what I am now after—a search for water.
Miles continue to drag, the scenery the same. Have I been lured into a trap? I want to have enough time to get back and rest before my week working at camp begins; I keep questioning my decision. After 40 more minutes, brown begins to shift to green, trees and grass sweep in, and I swivel my head as my Jeep swivels around the winding roads. I look for the source of green because where there’s water, there’s life. I see a small river.
I follow the river and find the craggy hills come closer; more trees populate their precipice. Thin dirt roads veer right against the cliffs. Another park sign tells me the stretch of river I drive beside is the Owyhee Reservoir, deep green, snaked along the curving landscape, deep black shadows speckled in the crags. Barely another car passes by, and before I know it, I’ve entered a remote oasis on the eastern edge of Oregon. I weave my way through the scenic desert canyon.
Jeep Wrangler off-roading, like it’s meant to be, is up close to the natural peaks and river valleys, down deep-set drops at the edge of a gorge, past campsites nestled in the brush. I’m a little afraid, as the axel torques horizontal, that I’m going to roll right into the reservoir, but there’s a bit of holy exhilaration as I travel deeper into the park.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.
Isaiah 43:2-3a NIV
I am amazed, pull the Jeep over, cut the engine, and listen to the soft chirp of crickets. After so much barren land, I am surrounded by breathtaking beauty.
Incredibly, this is where God takes us, isn’t it? He encourages us to press on in the barren places of our lives, past the temptation to turn around and head back to what may not be His best for us because it at least brings comfort.
If we do press on, even when nothing around us seems to change and we’re waist deep in wilderness wandering, God sees down the road and knows what’s ahead if we will just keep going. One mile more, and then another. And then the flatlands grow, ditches fill with water and become a cooling river, brown-brittle land turns lush.
This is where He leads us.
Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.
Isaiah 43:18-19 NIV
What appears as wasteland is anything but.
There is just as much purpose when the sun-scorched road stretches straight ahead with no curves or relief in sight. He stretches our faith, and we keep going, holding out our threadbare hope that beauty is ahead.
And it is. The quiet breathes, God sings His love over creation, and subtly He shows us how His heart is making a new way for us, even in the wilderness wandering of our souls.
Remember: He is making a way for you. When it doesn’t seem possible, He’s leading, showing you that He is creating something good even in the middle of your barren season. No season with Him is wasted. God took me two hours outside of civilization to see this, to notice and pay attention. To see the new springing up in the wasteland. To remind you of what I have witnessed.
Sarah Freymuth is a writer and dreamer whose words breathe hope and wonder into the world. She enjoys being by Lake Michigan and her simple Midwest life with her husband, especially when they blend together on Washington Island. Sarah is the communications manager for a global sports ministry, writes for numerous publications, and is the editor of Awake Our Hearts, an online literary journal for the female voice exploring faith and life in full.
I am grateful for this reminder of the lush and fruitful provisions even amidst our wilderness wanderings. Thank you, Sarah!