19
Beauty in the Desert

We drove into Paso Robles, California, the day after the RV fire, and I remember every part of that little city on a hill. Everything about Paso Robles is perfect. Surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with vineyards on every side, the town reads like an idyllic postcard, a Steinbeck novel. A main street and a downtown square. The real kind of square with a park in the middle, where kids run barefoot through soft green grass, and old men go for walks, and first dates share ice cream cones. Cupcake shops and coffee shops. Shops rich with olive oil and wine, eclectic art, and the world’s finest foods.

The clouds are better in Paso Robles too. So are the sunsets. They dance through the skies over hills that stretch on forever. Never-ending waves in an ocean of impossible green.

I’ve never been to such a beautiful place in my life. The world can be all wrong, but I assume that in Paso Robles, the world is all right.

When I showed up, I was empty-handed and empty-hearted. The band had decided to play the spring tour of 2010 even after the fire happened. So with rental cars, about three pairs of underwear to my name, borrowed instruments to play, and an eleven-month-old baby, I pulled into this new town broken, scared, and running on adrenaline. Paso Robles marked the first days of my season in the desert.

I think that’s why I remember Paso Robles feeling like heaven.

Sometimes when it all feels like hell and you wake up in the barren wilderness, that’s when you finally start seeing glimpses of heaven. In the desert, where you are breaking and least expecting to find life, tiny glimmers of beauty take you by surprise. Paso Robles is a bad example, since it is not a true desert and it is actually beautiful. So heaven isn’t much of a stretch. Still, wherever your desert may be, it is your desert.

It’s like when my little sister used to live in Hawaii. She lived less than ten minutes from the North Shore and some of the best seafood in the world. Every sunset was an epic ending to another day in paradise, as the skies blazed pink and orange and purple. The mountains and rainforests and birds and waves and beautiful forever ocean seemed surreal. It was paradise. Absolute paradise. And I was so jealous that she woke up each morning in heaven.

But she would tell you that back then, waking up in Hawaii was sometimes a little more like hell.

She would tell you that because she was pregnant with her first baby and her husband was hopping helicopters to help people a million miles away in Afghanistan. Each night she would wait for his call and prepare herself for what would happen if it didn’t come. She had more dreams about the doorbell ringing and Army men showing up to tell her they were very sorry than she ever did about playing at the beach. As we walked around the Army base one day, we heard a round of gunfire and everyone stopped what they were doing to pay tribute to a fallen soldier from their base. Tears ran down my face as the gunshot vibrations rattled through my body and little children held their moms’ hands and put their own tiny hands over their hearts. My sister stood there, resolute, held together, grocery cart by her side.

“Melissa, how do you do this? I couldn’t. I don’t know how you do this.” And I will never forget her answer. “It’s horrible, but you have to get to the place where, if it’s not your husband, well, it’s not your husband.”

And we went into the store and shopped for hamburgers and shampoo.

All of a sudden I realized that even though she was living in paradise, she was in many ways stuck in her own version of hell. Life can be that way. It might look like heaven, but it feels like hell. Conversely, it might be a forsaken desert, but it is there, in the desert, that little glimmers of heaven begin to make themselves known.

Deserts aren’t beautiful in and of themselves. They are painful, barren, and desolate. Deserts are cruel. But within the desolation of deserts, God Himself promises to descend and be present. In physical deserts we see God in stars, weathered rock, and cactus: beauty painted against a harsh backdrop. The shepherd boy David knew God’s presence in the wilderness well. In the fields, in the middle of night, standing guard against predators and completely alone, David wrote some of his most beautiful songs about God’s presence. Pastor and author Jonathan Martin says, “It was during those long days and nights in the wilderness that David became well acquainted with the perfect love that casts out fear.”1 When we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, it is David who reminds us we can fear no evil. Not because the valley of the shadow of death doesn’t bear the ultimate marks of evil, but because it is there, in that valley, that God is with us.

You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.2

In his description of the prodigal son, Henri Nouwen describes God’s presence in our brokenness by saying, “Our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it.”3

Deserts aren’t beautiful. But the compassion that flows forth from the Savior we meet in the desert is.

I will never forget the manna that fell from heaven in Las Vegas immediately after the fire. As the fire ravaged our belongings and we lost our most valuable possessions for the third time in a year, manna immediately began to fall. And it fell for weeks. Morning. Noon. Night.

We arrived at the hotel empty-handed that night. It was a casino near the Strip that the promoters had booked for us. And perhaps pre-fire we would have been excited to stay out for a bit and play in the big city, but all we wanted was a bed. Thinking back, I’m sure we looked like death walking into that hotel lobby. Maybe that’s why the front desk employee looked at us and said, “You look like you’ve had a rough day. I think you guys need to stay in the penthouse suite tonight. It’s open, and it’s no charge to you. I just feel like giving it to someone.” We looked at each other, puzzled. The penthouse suite in a Vegas hotel? We didn’t even own suitcases. We didn’t even own underwear. No toothbrushes. Nothing. We were the most broke people in the building. There were no clothes to wear the next morning and yet here we were traipsing up to the penthouse suite to spend the night. I was bewildered at the irony of it all. That guy had no idea who he’d just given the room to. Or maybe he did.

Our room had a doorbell and a hallway closet. The living room, with a one-hundred-inch plasma TV, was bigger than our entire apartment. Vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city topped it off. There was a guest bathroom for parties. Plush couches. An oversized king bed in a completely different room and a master bathroom that rivaled a palace. It had three sinks. A three-headed shower with a built-in steamer. The biggest bathtub I’ve ever seen in my life and bubble bath and robes draped over the edge. There was a separate room for the toilet, and two flat-screen TVs just in case the ones in the living room and bedroom didn’t suffice.

We invited the rest of the guys in the band to our room. “Please ring the doorbell,” I said. I put Annie down into what is probably the nicest bed she will ever sleep in. “Treasure it, baby,” I whispered in her ear. The boys came over, and they walked in with jaws dropped to the floor. Luxury lavished upon the lowly.

Earlier that night, Jimmy and Lori, Las Vegas music staples, had come to our show. Jimmy had a migraine and didn’t want to come. Lori made him. After the show they found us. “We know why we were supposed to come tonight. We are not rich people, but we got a refund check from our taxes that we had no idea we were getting. It’s for $1,000. Meet us in the lobby tomorrow morning and let’s go get you people some clothes.” They met us the next morning and took us to TJ Maxx. We picked out a few items and met back at the register, but Jimmy said, “Now look, I don’t want to get too personal here, but you’re going to need underwear. You guys go get suitcases and all the clothes you need. Top to bottom. Don’t come back till you have spent that money.”

I still wear the shoes I bought that morning. I call them my fire shoes. We got everything we needed.

After TJ Maxx in Las Vegas, we drove our rental cars to Paso Robles, California, and experienced unending compassion from the people there. One lady showed up that evening with ten jackets. She laid them out on a table and said, “I know they may not all fit, but I brought as many sizes and styles as we had in the house. You are going to need a jacket. Take whichever ones you like.” Another girl handed me a bag of clothes after the concert. “If you knew how much I loved clothes, you would know what a big deal this is!” She laughed and opened the bag to reveal some of the most expensive clothes I’ve ever touched with my own hands. Four years later, I still wear the boots I pulled out of that bag. One man showed up with a vintage guitar. He handed it to Ryan and said, “Keep it.” One family suggested we use the next day, our one day off, to recover at their lake house. They drove us to an oasis tucked among the California hills, fed us, and then left us there to rest. Not demanding our time or requiring anything in return, they were agents of compassion seeking nothing but the opportunity to tend to our wounds. I still remember walking the roads of that neighborhood. Those roads calmed my spirit. Those hills were my glimmers of hope.

Completely beyond my own ability to fix, predict, or enable my next step, I was totally empty-handed before a God whose beautiful compassion was on full display in my desert. Our physical needs were met by the church. The church universal. They heard about our situation on the radio and they showed up in droves. From Portland, they showed up with makeup and skincare. From tiny corners of Maine and Alaska they sent money for us to replace our “stuff.” From Oklahoma they called and offered their RV—free of charge—for us to finish our tour. We told the couple from Oklahoma that while it was an insanely kind offer, it was, in fact, insane. We reminded them that we’d had our van stolen, that we were in a head-on collision with an oak tree, and then there was an explosion and a fire. Three major losses in two years. They said we should come take their RV anyway. We told them no one would insure us. They said come anyway. Against our better judgment and with a lot of reservations, we sent a friend to Oklahoma to pick up an RV from complete strangers.

Our friend saw the RV and immediately called to tell us that we could not take it. “Why? Is it old? Is it going to explode?” I asked. I feared the worst.

“No,” he replied immediately, “it’s brand-new. It’s still wrapped in plastic.”

That RV carried us from Portland to New Jersey. The young owners, who had bought the RV as an investment into their future family vacations, didn’t care about the wear and tear or the miles. They only cared that we not give them any praise or attention and keep going about the work God had inspired us to do. Absurd compassion and generosity flowed forth and surrounded us. People sensed gentle nudgings and acted upon them. They were our lifelines, the very hands and feet of Jesus.

We were given much during those days. It helps that we were public figures, intent on finishing our tour, with an adorable baby in tow. That kind of public, inspirational story means we found ourselves on the long end of people’s compassion. Others are not so lucky in their deserts. I spent a lot of time taking the overabundance of things given to us during that season and getting it into the hands of other people walking through deserts. People who would never receive the overwhelming compassion we received. The handoffs always turned into tears, stories of deserts too painful for words, and prayers. I was constantly reminded that if the only beauty on display in deserts is God’s compassion, then the people of God better have their eyes open, looking for ways to express compassion to the least of these, looking to join in God’s work of redemption.

Those days in the desert are some of the sweetest memories of my whole life; I had never tasted such unmerited compassion and grace.

And while it is tempting to think that the physical, tangible acts of compassion were the most important signs of God’s presence during those days, they were not. God’s compassionate tending of my weary, bitter soul was the real measure of the Great Comforter entering into my wasteland. It was as if I was being perpetually held. And I didn’t want to be held, as a matter of fact. I wanted to quit and go home. I wasn’t asking God to hold me. I was fighting God’s presence at every turn. If I could squelch that presence, I could quit already and do something easier with my life. I didn’t want His compassion making a way through my desert; I wanted permission to quit.

Still, He showed up time and time again. I would fall asleep sensing that God Himself was physically showering me with peace and the ability to sleep deeply and well. I would wake up and hear the Great Comforter say, Good morning, My beloved. He whispered over me all day. I would open my mouth on stage, certain I had nothing to offer and nothing to say. Worried that what might come out of my mouth would sound more like, “Follow God and you just basically get screwed.” And yet, I opened my mouth and beauty flowed forth. Night after night. God’s presence dwelled so richly inside of me that He flowed out whether I wanted any part of it or not. Only in that season. Only on those nights. And people responded, telling me I spoke so deeply to where they were, it was like I knew exactly what to say. It’s hard to explain to someone that, in fact, I did know exactly what to say, because it wasn’t me speaking. My body was being hijacked and used as His mouthpiece. That doesn’t go over real well in the twenty-first century. I think you get put into hospitals for saying that kind of stuff. But it was true. I opened my mouth and the Spirit of God flowed out of the most broken, empty vessel that had nothing herself to offer anyone. Nothing but exhaustion and bitterness.

God mended my heart through His constant presence. It came through people. Through songs playing at just the right time on the radio. From sunsets too beautiful for words and birds waking me up in the morning with their songs. It came through words of Scripture, on a reel, working their way through my soul. Scriptures I wasn’t even reading would come back to me, lost since childhood, and would remind me that I was loved and that Jesus was worthy.

Those days and nights of physical nothingness were filled with rich conversation with those I loved and respected the most, overwhelming acts of compassion from strangers, and God’s constant, hovering, mending presence.

There have certainly been times in my life when all I have heard from God was the sound of my own heartbeat. A barely-there reminder that He exists. Other times God’s words have been firm and correcting. Sometimes God has stirred empathy, creativity, and passion. Other times God showed up inside of me as joy and courage and bravery. And then there was the one season I spent in the desert. And there in the desert, God showed up as my Protector and Mender. The way my dad stayed up with me, around the clock, after my tonsils were taken out. Making sure I didn’t choke or feel any pain or cry out for him only to have my whispers fall away into the darkness of the room. My dad propped himself up next to me and stood watch. And that is what God does in the desert.

In my desert, God stood watch. I had never felt so fiercely loved. So fiercely protected. So fiercely fought for.

I remember boarding a plane with Annie during that season, hoping for rest. We had been in different hotels and different cities for weeks on end and I hadn’t been sleeping well with the around-the-clock feedings that were happening. I wanted so badly to sleep on the flight. Annie was still young enough that she slept through every plane ride. If only I could sleep. In a rare moment, I closed my eyes and saw a vision of my earthly dad sitting in his recliner. He told me to come and sit in his lap. Me! A grown woman with a baby! Inexplicably, I walked to him and sat in his lap. A while later, I heard his voice. “Hey sweetheart, it’s time to wake up.” I opened my eyes and he was not there. No one was there. I was on the plane with drool running down my face. I was keenly aware of the fact that in some sort of unexplainable way, God had invited me into a holy rest. It was a turning point for me. I stopped fighting a divine God who would woo me to sleep.

I don’t believe God sent me to the desert for His own glory or for my own sanctification. I don’t believe He found joy in watching me suffer the way I did during those days. But I do believe that the moment I entered the desert He declared to all of heaven and earth that He was standing watch and no one else was invited. By the brokenness of this world, I found myself in the desert. By the mercy and compassion of God, I found myself in a profound friendship walking alongside the Creator of life—who brings beauty from ashes.

“Far from being punishment, judgment, or a curse, the wilderness is a gift,” Jonathan Martin says. “It’s where we experience the primal delight of being fully known and delighted in by God.” He says that when we step into the silence of the desert, we find God has been wooing us all along. “The wilderness is the place where God courts his Beloved.”4

When I think back to Paso Robles, I think of the moment when God began to court me in the lostness of my desert. I would never call the desert beautiful. But God was standing watch. And His compassion takes every broken thing and wraps it in His beauty, making it bearable. Beautiful, even.