Do You Walk on the Other Side of the Mountain?

On the back side of South Mountain, on a side trail of the National, the erosion from all the monsoon rains is evident. Six to twelve-inch gashes gut the earth, the trail washed away in places as we maneuver our way down the sharp decline.

The grass is always greener there, they say. Greener, that is, on the other side of the mountain. Except in the desert. Where there is no grass.

A few yellow flowers shoot from the brittlebush. A light breeze catches the silver-green leaves and they rub together in a dry, rattling sound, giving voice to the bush's naming. The sound stirs memory. 

I remember the sound of crunching dead leaves as a child in Minnesota -- the spent oak, elm and maple beneath my feet. The brittlebush rustles that same sound, in a softer, more lonely, echo.

The spiky six-foot stems of the ocotillo, radiating from one central short trunk, have returned to brown, weathered sticks. The leaves, from the summer rains, have disappeared, leaving the plant to appear dead and forgotten. The other cacti also await winter rains - the hedgehog, the saguaro, the cholla and the staghorn. Everything is spine and thorn, the fruit consumed long ago by desert creatures.

We are in the in-between time, a season of temperate weather, but no moisture.

With no blossoms, the pollinating insects have disappeared. In their absence - silence.

On this other side of the mountain there are no human voices. No barking dogs. No reception for cell phones and electronic interruption. We have entered an illusion that we are the only ones on the planet - me, my husband, and dog, Mollie.

Along the trail we see the scat of javelina and coyote and the imprints of footprints of those who have gone before, but today, we are alone.

Oh ... the silence. You could lose yourself in it.

Or find yourself.

Winter. The time of in-between. The not yet of spring. Of flowering. Of new life.

Advent. The time of waiting. The not yet of Christmas. Of God's promises.

Traditionally, advent was a time of reflective, quiet days that gave way to the feasting and gift-giving of Christmas. As a child I remember lighting candles and opening windows of an advent calendar. As an adult, I still seek the quieter, reflective discipline in the midst of holiday noise and drama.

This advent I am looking for God's grace in desert places. Here among the waiting ocotillo and saguaro. The desert is a place for those who wait. Who anticipate the coming.  In the desert we wait for water. In the summer we anticipate the arrival of monsoon rains to relieve the oppressive summer heat. In the winter we wait for the arrival of the rains to usher in springtime life.

Waiting. What are you waiting for? Perhaps you also journey on the other side of the mountain. You know what I'm talking about. The steps of your life rhythm are not quite in sync with the rest of the world. You find yourself walking among the eroding earth, with ravines gutting your way. You find yourself waiting ... waiting ... for what? You are not sure.

Perhaps the first two words of advent can stir anticipation of the coming. Here. In the silence.

Look.

Remember.

Together, let's seek Him, on the other side of the mountain.