The Land Between

I feel like the year 2020 has given new dimensions to the term “desert season.” We use this phrase when we’re describing a time of transition or waiting or “the land between” progress and blessings. I’ve had these seasons throughout my life, as has pretty much everyone on the planet. Most of us just haven’t experienced them simultaneously to this degree until now.

It hasn’t been the most fun, has it?

Because on top of the pandemic and social issues and political strife and crazy weather patterns and murder hornets and aliens and anger that permeates so much of today’s media, we also have our individual challenges and heartbreaks. None of that slowed down. Not for a second.

This commonality follows us in our individual strife as well as shared tribulations. We walk the walk, putting one foot in front of the other, carrying loads of varying weight, mourning what we’ve lost along the way.

Because we’ve all lost something in 2020.

The land between begins with the loss of a constant, which leads to a change in status. It may be health, job, marital status, financial security, lifestyle, title, freedom, or belonging. It may be vision. It may be faith.

When you experience the loss of a constant, it kicks off a season of growth. Here’s the thing about seasons of growth: when they come, you won’t be ready. You can prepare for some more than others, but you won’t be “ready”—not for all of it. Not for the moment of impact.

When the woman who’s been feeling poorly for months hears the words, “You have cancer,” she isn’t ready. When the couple who has been fighting finally utters the word “divorce,” they aren’t ready. When the sonogram results are abnormal, or the blood test brings bad news. When your boss calls you in to discuss “downsizing,” or the rising flood waters overtake your home:

We all have one major thing in common here: the land between is no one’s preference. No one chooses time in the desert. No one likes uncertainty, transitions, pain, or feeling lost.

The land between demands transparency and a certain level of honesty. We have to admit where we are and go forward from there. It’s the beginning of the path to healing. It keeps us from walking alone. The journey requires courage, and courage comes from knowing we are not alone. It doesn’t mean we are never scared. It doesn’t mean we like it or want to be there. It means we put one foot in front of the other and move on through.

We see this in the famous verse of Psalm 23:4: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me” (NIV).

Let’s break this down into three parts.

1. Even though…

The certainty is this: trials will happen. We live in a fallen world. The moment Eve took the fruit from the serpent, the sands began to run out on humanity’s time in paradise. The second Adam took his first bite, the foundation of security in this world cracked, and mankind began its walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 10:13, “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man…” (NIV).

The phrase “common to man” is there for a reason. Welcome to the club.

2. I walk…

Walk. Not run, not fly. The word walk implies we’re likely to spend time here; that there’s some distance between us and the other side. It implies resolve. We have to walk, not shuffle, not crawl. It also implies caution. We’re not blindly racing through, not skipping along carelessly.

3. Through the valley of the shadow of death…

This is not a pleasant place to be. Shadows are scary, and death is not generally our preferred end game. But “through” means we are moving forward. The goal is to get out to the other side, not stay forever.

When we revisit the entire verse of 1 Corinthians 10:13, Paul expounds, “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it” (NIV).

He knows the plans and the path; he will deliver you safely. He will provide a way out. And he’ll make sure you can find it if you seek his guidance.

We can fear no evil because time and time again God has said, “I will be with you.” And it’s always been true.

In the desert years of the Israelites, he was there. He guided them through and oversaw every moment of wandering, despite their complaining and crying, their lack of faith and fidelity. He never left them. He won’t leave us. God is with us in the desert, the pandemic, the days that feel dark and lost.

This is the key to navigating the land between. It’s knowing, deep in your gut, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God is with you. It’s refusing to bow to fear or doubt or anxiety. It’s trusting that he knows the way, and that he’s willing to walk with you on it.

Accepting total protection as truth requires total trust in a loving, powerful God.

This is faith.

It is the opposite of fear because fear revolves around the unknown.

Faith is confidence in a known God.

Here’s the big challenge:

When God’s protection doesn’t look like we think it should.

When a broken world cuts us with its shards, and broken people drag us over their jagged edges. When the darkness of the shadows overwhelm us to the point we cannot see, and our screams of anguish drown out the whispers of Truth.

When we forget that the end game is the point, regardless of how obstacle-laden our path to get there.

Can we remember? Can we find the place where our faith is bigger than our fear, look up, and say: “I will fear no evil, for you are with me”?

When we can, it fills our hearts to overflowing.

It drowns out doubt.

It drowns out noise.

It puts us on solid ground, out from under the shadow, into the light.

On the other side of the desert, where we belong.

Rebecca Greebon is a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and child of the One True King. She has a passion for sharing with others how amazing they are, how much they are loved, and how blessed every day is, even when we are lost or distracted or completely over ourselves and the world. Rebecca blogs at theriverchick.com.

Photograph © Katerina Kerdi, used with permission