In this world we live in the desert, spiritually speaking. No Cloud Nines appear permanently; only as mirages. God has a message for those of us who know we are in the desert. We can’t quite hear it yet, however. We get it in bits and pieces.
Take me, for example. I have had many desert years that were so dry I lost my voice. I went behind a rock and prayed to God to deliver me from my suffering. He was stone-deaf to my cries.
Like the psalmists, I spoke to him in bitter, whining words that bounced off the ear of God like a new wife’s stony little biscuits. I imagine that God said ouch.
I wanted to learn how to be a good, long-suffering person. So God ignored my sincerest efforts to transcend myself. That taught me patience, but not quickly. I wanted to be a loving wife and mother; God apparently was not amused. He sent me upchucking children and a workaholic husband. Me, I was above it all. I was the martyr who deserved better. God looked at me and said “You suck.”
And indeed I did. I sucketh, I said in one of my psalms. I sucketh so much that I deserveth to go to Suckers Hell. And so He sent me to the mall and the grocery with two kids and little money. And I whined and withheld sex from my workaholic husband.
These were the bare beginnings of the desert years. When I shopped at Sears and served canned meat products and frozen dinners to the little rug rats and the workaholic husband. I was behind the rock, deservedly so. I sucketh still.
But then the little girl took sick and eventually the husband did as well. I was left with myself and a good son who learned to stay out of my way when I was wailing to God to get me out of the desert and into a nice clean oasis with a housecleaning service. God said unto me, “You are a spiritual writer. I can use you.”
And I laugheth at God and said to Him that I was better at working crosswords than writing spiritual drivel that just got me into trouble. And He said, “No kidding, I need you in the trenches.” And I said to the Man Upstairs, “The trenches are as bad as the desert. Both sucketh mightily.” And God actually tittered. And so here I am. I writeth as a scribe of Him Who Hath a Sense of Humor. I hope to rise above the trenches one fine day. Maybe on the Eighth Day He just forgot to create a willing scribe who loves the desert and the trenches and can write the one wise thing that would open everyone’s hearts to God. Maybe that’s what happened and He forgot to tell me.
Vicki Woodyard
www.bobwoodyard.com 
