In the desert all kinds of things are buried and unearthed; dead bodies, gold nuggets, aquifers full of water and whatever one can fit into the back of a pick-up truck. My marriage too, buried, my life unearthed. I was cast out of my house, like Jonah from the whale, escaping with two suitcases of clothes and a credit score that opened the door to an apartment.
Divorce has a way of divesting one of clutter. One is
stripped bare. Unadorned like a desert view, snow peaked mountains unobstructed
by trees, Milky Way galaxies unobscured by ambient light, air devoid of choking
particulates. Except for the dust and sand stirred by the wind, un-tethering
everything that isn’t nailed down.
Out prospecting one day (for gold!) my friend Dana saw this
behemoth lying in a ravine. I do not know how he hoisted it onto his truck. Real
furniture this, cut from some wood that wouldn’t give up its soul. Pulling into
my driveway he asks, “Do you need a dresser?”
My friend found a different kind of gold! A practical altar
to friendship, God’s faithfulness and a place for my underwear. Straight-forward
oak, shiny dark brown shellack, cool and smooth to the touch. Early American,
French provincial, I’ve no clue. Stamped with the name of the furniture maker,
Angelus in each drawer. Sun and wind only taking their toll on exposed corners.
Little is permanent in the desert. In that first season,
the dresser was a beautiful altar to God’s provision. The next season it stayed
a strong and secure piece as I moved into my second marriage. One more time on
a truck to an expansive home overlooking Joshua Tree.
