As I stretched after a run yesterday, I caught sight of two bald eagles in a tree across the river. I immediately thought of Isaiah 40:31 and the promise that those who trust in the Lord will soar on wings like eagles. Then I thought of the hymn “On Eagle’s Wings,” which is quite possibly the most clunkily-composed hymn of all time. But I digress.
As I observed the eagles, the river, and the lush green around me, I could not help but note the difference from my desert homeland, the Phoenix suburbs. Moving from Arizona to Iowa meant exchanging year-round brown for a whirlwind cycle of color. It meant leaving temperate weather with the occasional dust storm for tornado season and blizzard season. It meant swapping cacti for oak trees, scorpions for spiders, and lizards for squirrels. I do not have to scare javelina away from my car as I once did, but I do have to avoid hitting deer with it.
I don’t think these changes are arbitrary. The Lord called us to Iowa to serve his church here, but I think there is more to it than that. I believe God places his servants not just in specific communities but ecologies. He calls us to particular places not only for us to do something but for those places to do something to us.
Think about all the times in Scripture when the Lord draws his people to mountaintops, deserts, seas, or gardens in order to teach them something.
So I began to wonder: Why Iowa? Why this region of cornfields and rivers? Of abundant birds and overgrown yards? Or gusty winds and pollen allergies? What is it I am meant to learn here that I could not have learned in the desert?
Perhaps the tumultuous weather is meant to teach me dependence. Maybe the seasons are to teach me patience and timeliness. The comedy of the squirrels hopping about my yard may be to teach me levity, though their propensity for being struck down by cars may be to remind me that creation is groaning in painful expectation. The flourishing cherry tree in my yard may be to teach me about fruitful generosity, while the withering apple tree may stand as a warning. Perhaps the eagles swooping over my running trail are simply to encourage me to run with diligence—both on my favorite trail and in my faith. And maybe the oak trees over my house are to impress upon me that I am small and that sturdiness is slow-growing.
I may have learned such lessons had I stayed in the desert. But then again, maybe not. Maybe desert-planted Christians are meant to learn different lessons. At the very least, they are likely to learn differently.
Perhaps growing up in parched places was to teach me to thirst, literally and spiritually. Maybe it was to remind me of the fierce heat of God’s love—and wrath. As in Scripture, it seems that my years in the desert were never the goal but, instead, a time of intense preparation for what lay ahead.
All this to say, take stock of where you live and have lived. Notice what makes these environments distinct. Consider what their dangers and delights may be doing to your soul. Don’t just “bloom where you are planted,” as the old cliché goes. Instead, be mindful of the material metaphors the surround you. Pay attention to the pedagogy of place.
Ryanne Molinari 