“As the deer panteth for the waters, so my soul longeth after Thee.” Psalm 42

(Stories are life. People tell stories, not only to children but to ourselves. We form narratives that interpret how we not only see life, but live it. It is stories that shape us, and help us to interpret the world in which we live. It should come as no surprise then that many of Jesus’ teachings were illustrated with stories. I have been inspired to do the same today, to illustrate the idea of being in a life desert and one way in which we might be led out.)

Shelly woke up at 2 a.m. with the same dream that had been recurring every night for months.  She was in a desert, wandering by herself, directionless . . . and Thirsty.   Wide awake and knowing she wouldn’t fall back asleep she slipped out of bed without a sound, being careful not to disturb her husband Matt.  She took a drink of water, and tread softly down the stairs, using the ambient light from her phone, being careful to avoid the fourth step down—the one that creaked. She went into their home office and library, quietly closing the door behind her so as not to awaken the children.  She sat down in the comfortable brown leather recliner, covering herself with the embroidered patchwork quilt handmade by her grandma Jean long, long ago.

As she sat in the silent darkness of the early morning, she reflected on the meaning of that disturbing desert dream.  She had a great life.  She loved Matt, her husband of 13 years, at least most of the time.  He was hard-working, a great dad, and didn’t have any horrible habits, other than perhaps the inordinate amount of time he spent in the garage tinkering with his Ferrari 250 GTO.  At times she did wonder who HE loved more—her or the car?  She was working at her dream job as an interior designer, which not only provided good income and allowed her to be her own boss, but ample time to spend with her two children, Sam, aged 10 and Hope, 7. They were delightful children and the joy of her life.  She was living in her dream home which she had designed, and in which she would frequently entertain friends and family. Every year they took a family vacation.  Last year it was Disney, this year they were planning a trip to the East Coast to introduce the children to historical sites—Independence Hall, Jamestown, Williamsburg and maybe Washington D.C. if they were feeling brave.  Everything seemed so very right, and yet she had a nagging feeling deep down in the pit of her stomach that something was wrong.  Far too often lately she felt empty and alone. Though she had everything she could ever dream of the desert dream—more of a nightmare really—was a constant reminder that something was missing—or that she was missing something.  It wasn’t only at night, for during the day she felt like there was a vacant place at the very center of her being that wasn’t being satisfied or satiated by all the good things that she had.  She sometimes felt like a stranger to herself, lost and directionless and trying to navigate life by herself.  She sometimes had a deep sense of foreboding, and even feared what could happen, might happen.   She felt empty, untethered, drifting on an open sea, or trudging across an endless desert without any direction . . .  dry . . . and thirsty.

As she sat under the comfy quilt, the soft glow emanating from the tiffany lamp guided her eyes, as if by an unseen force, to the bottom shelf of the antique bookcase, and the old family bible that was halfway hidden on the bottom shelf.  It had also been given to her by Grandma Jean, the last time she saw her.  She was only fifteen, and didn’t know at the time that grandma was dying.  If she had, perhaps she would have appreciated more the time spent with her, and the gift that grandma had given her.  The bible was an icon, a container, of the faith that lived in grandma.

Grandma Jean was “old school” when it came to her faith.  She went to the little white church that sat on a small hill surrounded by maple trees in northern Minnesota.  That’s where grandma had been born and raised.  Whether summer or winter, rain or shine, Grandma Jean would be found faithfully sitting in “her pew” every Sunday—unless of course she was sick or tending to a family member or friend.  That was just part of her practice—to love God and her neighbors.

During the week she would get up early in the morning, no later than 4:30, and sit in her favorite chair, the one where she had rocked her five children—and pray.  She called it her “time with my Loved One.”  One time when Shelley was only five, she woke up without grandma knowing and spied on her through a crack in the door.  She heard grandma singing, ever so softly, some of her favorite hymns, like “The Old Rugged Cross”, “How Great Thou Art”, and of course “Amazing Grace.”  And then she read her bible, the one that had been given to her by her mother, Susan.  After what seemed like forever grandma closed her eyes, it looked like she was sleeping, but Shelley knew she was praying.  Shelley asked her once about what she said when she was praying, and Grandma Jean said, “What’s important isn’t what I say to God, but what God says to me.” As the sun began to rise Grandma would close her bible and start her day, with a song in her heart, a prayer on her lips, and a smile on her face. 

Grandma Jean had lived a tough life; Born in 1912 she almost died of the Spanish flu.  She lived through two world wars, the Great Depression, and the death of her father when she was only ten, which left her family “poor as church mice” as her mama would say.  She watched her husband Bill go off to war in the Pacific and come back a much different man who drank too much and jumped from job to job. Today they would call it PTSD, at that time it was just the way it was.  Divorce wasn’t heard of in those days, so Grandma Jean just learned to live with it. She loved him despite himself, sometimes saying “God’s love goes where it’s sent, even if it’s in a cowpie.”  As a mother herself she buried not one but two of her own children, for whom she would always grieve–silently.  She had known more than her share of sorrow, suffering, and sadness; and though she wasn’t always happy, she seemed to have a deep sense of peace and joy, that emanated from her very pores, like the soft glow coming from Shelley’s lamp.   

Shelley was only fifteen when Grandma Jean had died, but she remembered fondly the times she had spent at grandma’s house—not elegant or fancy, “nothing to write home about”, as Grandma would say, but cozy, comfortable, clean and safe.  They were days that she took for granted and thus passed by without her full appreciation.  How she wished that Grandma Jean were here with her now, so that she could talk to her about what she was feeling.  She wasn’t, but her bible was.  And so, as if invited by Grandma’s sweet spirit, she got up out of her chair, crossed the room to the bookcase and carefully lifted the bible from the shelf, tenderly holding it like she would a baby.  She sat back down, and caressed the cover, gently tracing the cross.  She relished the tactile feel of this book which grandma had so treasured. With some hesitancy she opened it, as if uncertain of what she might find or what the effect might be.  The well-worn pages, some of them dog-eared, reflected the years of service that it had been put through. It was almost as if this book were grandma’s faithful companion.  “Maybe it was,” she thought.   She turned on the reading lamp and began to page through The Book slowly, noting marks, comments and notations that Grandma had written in her own hand.  She didn’t know where to begin, but she remembered Grandma telling her that though she loved all of the Bible, the Psalms were her favorite—”because they are like God’s poetry, songs and prayers all rolled into one.”  Shelley looked at the table of contents and found the page number of Psalm 1.  “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor sits in the seat of mockers, nor stands in the assembly of sinners. . .” she read.  She felt slightly disappointed—maybe even put off.  There was that word again, “sinners”.  She had heard it too often from her Christian acquaintances who had worked so hard at getting her to convert.  She was not attracted by their self-righteous smugness, sense of being “right”, or well-rehearsed arguments.  If anything, their manipulative methods drove her further from, rather than closer to, faith.  And so, she had pulled away, wanting nothing to do with them, their church, or their god.  She began to turn pages again, and as if guided by the hands of her grandma landed on Psalm 42.  There, underlined in red pen, were the words, “As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul longeth after Thee.  My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.”  

Shelley sucked in her breath.  These words that her grandma evidently cherished perfectly captured what she was feeling.  “My soul is thirsty,” she said quietly to herself.  She read the words again, this time more slowly, and allowed them to soak deep into her soul.  She paused . . . and pondered.  Maybe, just maybe, this was it.  This was what she was missing. . . .

She remembered entering through the heavy doors of Grandma Jean’s quaint little church.  The ushers and most of the men were wearing suits, the women were pressed and dressed in their Sunday best, some of them wearing hats—all of them donning them on Easter.  The pastor wore a black robe and had a big, booming, voice.  He was quite intimidating, especially to a little girl.  When she got bored with his sermons which seemed to last an eternity, she would look at the stained-glass windows which had pictures from the bible, many of them depicting the life of Jesus.  She would sit by grandma, who smelled faintly of lilacs, and hold her hand when she wasn’t holding the bible or hymnal.  It was so peaceful and reassuring, almost like being in heaven.

After Grandma died, she tried to recapture that feeling by going to a church by her own house, but quite frankly it just wasn’t the same.  When she graduated and went to college there were so many other things that were more demanding, like her studies, tests, and part-time job, and so much more important like trying to be popular, going to parties, and of course meeting boys. At times she would feel as if it was all rather pointless, especially when she was experiencing a crisis, wondering what the meaning of her life was.  It was at those times that she would think of her grandma and her little church.  But all of that God-stuff that Grandma seemed to cherish seemed, well, old-fashioned, out-of-date, and impractical for a world that was so much different from hers, and the demands she faced in her daily life.  In time she shelved all the God and faith stuff—just as she had done with grandma’s bible.

Shelley continued to read the Psalm, “When I remember these things, I pour out my soul within me.  For I used to go with the multitude; I went with them to the house of God.” The house of God.  The simple little church that grandma seemed to love even more than her own house.   It wasn’t the multitude, but Grandma Jean whom she had gone with.  Back in those days attending church was important, so there were a lot of people populating the pews on Sundays.  She remembered how grandma introduced her to her friends and neighbors sitting near her.  And how she would tell Shelley that in addition to all those people there were many more that Shelley couldn’t see– a multitude of angels– singing, and praying, and praising God with them, just like at the birth of Jesus when they appeared to the shepherds, Shelley’s favorite part of the Christmas story.  As Shelley ruminated on these rich, religious recollections suddenly, unexpectedly, and to her own surprise, she was overcome with a sense of calm and peace.  Her body felt warm and tingly, just like when Grandma used to put her arms around her and hold her in her chair. Shelley luxuriated in that feeling for a very long time . . .sitting in the lap of Grandma Jean, slowly rocking, resting her head on grandma’s heart, a heart that beat with the love of God.  It was almost as if she was there with her now.

And then she read a bit further; “Why are you cast down, O my soul?  And why are you disquieted within me?  Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him.”

“This is it”, Shelley said quietly to herself, “My soul is cast down.  All these years I have been paying attention to my husband, my children, my friends, my house, my career, and my self, satisfying all of my earthly desires, doing what I’m expected to do, trying to be who people want me to be, all the while ignoring what matters most; my soul and the spirit within me.  No wonder I’m dry, thirsty, and having nightmares about being alone in the desert.  I’m like a parched land, lost in the landscape of modern-day culture, chasing after everything that lacks ultimate meaning, and that in the end doesn’t really matter.  I’ve forgotten what grandma modeled for me and tried to teach me.  I’ve rejected what grandma relished most: her faith in God, her love for her little church, and her bible; her most prized possession which she treasured more than anything.  I can’t believe that she gifted it to me, and that I’m holding it in my hands right now.  But it wasn’t the book itself, but The Spirit that was giving life to those worn-out pages, making God—and grandma—come alive as well. And that is why she could die so peacefully—her soul rested secure.”

As Shelley sat in that early morning darkness, tears began to slowly roll down her cheeks.  She missed her grandma Jean terribly, more than she ever had before.  She missed her simple, little house with the rocking chair; she missed the cookies and the bedtime stories and prayers; she missed holding her hand; hands that were well worn not only from a life of hard work and caring for others; but which bore the stigmata of her savior– hands opened to embrace others in love—just as grandma had; and she missed sitting with her in that little church, smelling her lilac perfume, and hearing her sing her favorite hymns. 

As the morning light began to break, it dawned on Shelley that she not only missed Grandma Jean, but she missed the most precious gift that she had given her; the gift of a simple faith.  Not the pretentious faith; the piously paraded faith; nor the pride-filled faith, that seemed to be so popular these days; but the genuine, unassuming, quiet faith that Grandma Jean embodied, and that filled her with such contentment and peace throughout her life. 

As the rising sun peeked over the horizon with its first rays of light that ushered in a new day, Shelley remembered Grandma telling her that every time she saw the sun rise she thought of Jesus, the risen Son of God, and how it filled her life with light and the assurance that one day she would also rise with Him.

“That is why grandma lived like she did,” Shelley thought, “And why she could die like she did.”  In that very moment Shelley felt something new and different; something that she hadn’t felt for a very, very, long time—since she was a little girl in the presence of grandma, and God:  She felt her own spirt rise up, her soul filled with peace, and her heart full of love.  She no longer felt empty–or thirsty. Rather, she felt alive.  Fully alive.  Gloriously alive, filled with peace and joy and hope.  “I feel” Shelley said out loud, “like Grandma Jean must’ve felt.”

“Good morning honey, who are you talking to?”  It was her husband Matt.

“Oh, nobody. I couldn’t sleep so I’m just sitting here thinking, watching the sun rise.”

“It’s going to be a beautiful day.” Matt said. 

“It truly is,” replied Shelley.  He couldn’t imagine how beautiful– and new– it really was.