The Desert Was Never Empty

Being out in nature has been a big part of my life. I grew up camping, hunting, fishing, hiking, and caving.  My attention was often drawn to the shapes of the few clouds scattered across the bright blue sky, a fiery sunset, or a giant thunderhead on the move.  Watching a wall of rain move toward me during monsoon season always had a humbling effect. The desert has a way of reminding you that you are part of something much bigger than yourself.  I would notice the small details too. I loved how the desert earth cracked as it dried after heavy rain. As a child, I would pick up those broken pieces that looked like little tiles, a desert mosaic created by rain meeting dry earth.  And the smell. The smell of rain hitting the dry desert earth is indescribable. It can be smelled for what seems like miles and miles.

At some point in life there began to be a shift in my view. I was no longer able to find the beauty in the desert. All I saw was the monotonous browns and lack of significant shade. The heat became unrelenting. I knew my bucket was empty. What I didn’t understand was that an empty bucket wasn’t really the problem.  Empty buckets can be refilled. My bucket had holes in it. And somewhere along the way, I had left it sitting in the scorching sun. I felt like I needed to escape. I needed greenery. I needed visible signs of life. I couldn’t see it in the desert anymore.

The interesting thing about the desert is that a lack of visible life doesn’t mean life isn’t there.  Recently, I started thinking about the little red bugs we always called “rain bugs” that appeared after heavy desert rains.  As a kid, I would watch them crawl around and gently pick them up. I would hold them briefly before letting them continue on their mission, a mission I was completely unaware of at the time.  I didn’t think much beyond the fact that they were soft, interesting little creatures that appeared after a storm. They were simply part of the desert coming alive after the rain.  Out of curiosity, I recently decided to learn more about them.  I discovered they are actually red velvet mites. They spend most of the year beneath the surface, tucked away in silk-lined burrows, surviving harsh desert conditions.  Then the monsoon rains come.

The ground softens.

The conditions change.

And they emerge.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that.  For most of my life, I had looked at the desert and noticed what was happening above the surface. I noticed the storms, the sunsets, and the cracked earth after the rain.  But just below the surface, there was an entire lesson I hadn’t discovered yet.  The desert wasn’t empty. My perspective had become skewed. I wonder how often we do the same thing in our own lives.  We look at seasons where things feel dry or difficult and assume nothing meaningful is happening. We focus on what is missing, what has changed, or what we wish looked different.  But sometimes there is more happening beneath the surface than we realize. 

That is the heart behind Thriving in Deserts.  Not pretending difficult seasons aren’t difficult.  Not forcing ourselves to see beauty before we are ready. But creating space to pause, look closer, and notice what might still be growing.