In the Wilderness
by Nathaniel Evans
IN THE WILDERNESS
Late one night,
or early in the morning—
I forget which as time, once blurred,
stretches still in dissonance.
You dragged me
kicking
screaming
sobbing
from what I treasured, my heart
beats dimmer and slower
as shocking cold cut the warmth of my hearth.
After a period I cannot recount,
my eyes dried as my body pruned from thirst,
and I viewed through red haze
the place You brought me.
Where once I slept surrounded by lush green flora,
content, if not in perfect peace—
neither starving nor parched—
I now blink wearily at this—
waste.
At once I stumbled my way,
tracing footprints and a long, deep furrow
through desert
over rocks
down dried river beds.
I crested the path of a rugged bluff and spied in the distance
the fire I once called home,
separated now by a canyon
so grand it cannot be crossed.
Spikes drove through my mind;
aches wracked my chest.
I screamed Your promise back at You—
voice cracking—
as vitriolic echoes terminated in silence.
The red-orange glow of distanced fire subsumed my vision,
drowning out all Light,
my knees and shins groaned,
depressing sharp pebbles and dry dust.
Back I turned, stumbling near-blind
up dried river beds,
under rocks
through desert
past shallow furrows and footprints dusted by a haunting wind,
searching for cessation—
an end to deep reds and dry browns—
the barest hint of green.
Endless.
The deep ache of hunger reverberated
asynchronous to the spikes of thirst,
my croaking throat no longer called out
to an ear assuredly not listening,
attached to One I was unsure was present—
or existent.
A whisper began in the silence of despair—
a man plans his way; the Lord determines his steps.
I had only the strength to lift my eyes—
And I remained unsure it were my own—
to ask one silent question:
why?
Silence reigned.
I called out.
Silence reigned.
Another question bubbled:
where?
First life in the desert place fluttered by.
Strength—not my own—filled me.
Walls of stone stretched high
leading only to a minefield of boulders
impassable.
Again I turned and retraced my path,
tracks well-worn in desert sand.
Time incomprehensible has gone—
yet a kernel of hope sustains me.
Life, flittering and fluttering,
leads me to that old, rugged bluff.
The red-orange glow remains,
smoldering
unstoked.
A croaked question burbles.
The sun rises, sets, rises, and pants in setting.
The moon’s glow brightens and dims.
Seek, He calls, and find.
Sow, He calls, and see
—plants from seeds on dry ground.
Red-orange streaks blur into unending brown;
still I see no green.
Vehement venom falls from head to toe,
rises from sole to soul. Yet,
anger dives from above,
thundering as toward Job.
Forcefully bent knees and shins bark,
digging into sharp pebbles and dry dust.
Lips, borne by backbreaking yoke,
meet bone-dry ground.
Around my broken body remains
a desert place;
no life-giving fire nor slaking water,
only sand and salt of earth.
Walls rise—
invisible—
demanding separation from fruitful vision.
Sow, calls Thunder, and see
—plants from seeds on dry ground.
Blinded, I see.
In the desert of my soul,
left unwatered by pride,
green shoots rise:
love, peace, kindness, goodness,
Faith.
NATHANIEL EVANS
Nathaniel G. Evans is, first and foremost, a son of the Most High. He enjoys reading and studying Scripture and teaching it in various formats. He leads a group Bible study at his local church and also writes blog material on various topics from deep dives into Scripture to biblical views on current events and trends.
He can be found at nathanielgevans.com and on Instagram as @FathomsoftheWord. He has one previous publication in The Way Back to Ourselves.