The Desert

Last week, our little family went to Winnemucca, Nevada, to visit Grandma and Grandpa Beene.  The climate and landscape of that Northern Nevada town could not be more different than the climate and landscape of Savannah, Georgia, where we live.  My parents’ home is in the high desert, where it is very hot on summer days, very cold on winter nights, and dry and dusty all the time.  They are surrounded by small mountain ranges, and the “river” which meanders its way through their town is mostly dry for several months each year.  Sage brush, tumbleweeds, rabbit brush, and the invasive cheat grass dominate what little flora is found, and as we wandered the range, jack rabbits and quail were about the only wildlife we saw this time of year, since the rattlesnakes are probably deep in their holes.

When my parents moved from our old home in Northern California and bought a newly-built home in an average neighborhood in Winnemucca, they decided they would design their small front yard to reflect the unique Nevada climate.  The slope of the yard is steep enough that no one would want to push a lawn mower up it.  More importantly, they could not keep a patch of grass alive except by irrigation using the scarce town  water.  So, they planted a large tree of some native species, a couple of lilac bushes, a forsythia, a butterfly bush, and some small patches of bedding annuals, bulbs, and ground covers.  They covered the rest of the yard in rocks.

My dad purchased the rocks from a local quarry the summer they moved in.  I had just graduated from high school, and my sister was home on break from college; both of us were working at a gold mine which paid good wages for temporary summer help.  So on the weekend after the rocks were delivered, dumped in a pile in the middle of the front yard, we were both recruited to spread them to every corner.  There were enough to make a layer three or four inches deep all over the yard.

Those rocks have been there for 21 years now.  The stones vary in size; a few are smaller pebbles, some are as big as my fist, but most are about an inch in diameter. While the dull, gray field of stones do not match the lush, green, suburban ideal of a lawn, they are attractive enough in their context.  They have kept the slope in place with little erosion.  I think my parents have to pull a few nascent tumbleweed plants from among them each year, but in general, they have kept the weeds under control.  Some of the rocks are buried each year by the sand which blows from the surrounding desert, but my parents have found ways to scoop out the sand and keep their xeriscape working for them.

We had not been to see my parents for about a year and a half.  In that time, my son has grown into a curious (read:  easily bored), inquisitive (read:  talkative), active (read:  restless), and creative (read:  a little quirky) six-year-old.  At home, the sweltering heat of our drippy summer air has cooled to give us pleasant autumn evenings.  He has come to enjoy playing outside for some time every evening after spending his days in the rigors of the kindergarten classroom.  He has some plastic dinosaur fossil toys left over from a game he and his friends played during his birthday party, and he likes to line them up, with the two-legged species pitted against the four-legged ones in epic battles for control of the patio.  His mother and I were concerned that the trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house would be filled with complaints of boredom, long hours glued to the screens of video games and the DVD player, and subtle reminders that Grandpa is used to reading his newspaper in a house full of peace and quiet each day.  Most parents of young children who visit relatives without young children are familiar with those reminders:  a punctuated snapping of the newspaper, a well-timed clearing of the throat, a forced nonchalance when answering questions like, “Does Grandpa always spend that much time alone in the bathroom?”

We packed up as many toys as we could, but unless we paid $25 more each way to check a third suitcase, the plastic dinosaur fossils just weren’t going to fit.  When we arrived at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, however, our son immediately decided he wanted to play in the front yard.  He didn’t need any toys; those rocks became his toys.  For a while, he asked for some companionship in his games; we played hide-and-seek games with the rocks, we uncovered all of the biggest rocks and compared their weights, and we found a thousand other ways that those rocks were about the most fascinating things on the planet.  After a couple of days, he didn’t need me any more; all he had to do was to put on his bright-yellow crocs and ask an adult, who might check the thermometer and insist he put on his jacket and mittens as well, and he could go out in the front yard by himself.  And he spent hours out there:  first thing in the morning, when it was 39 degrees and he was still wearing his Lightening McQueen jammies; in the late afternoon, after we had eaten our lunch of turkey leftovers and completed whatever outings we had planned for the day; and any time in between that the mood struck him.  He had a blast.

The theologian in me had to ask, “Where is God in all of this?”  It would be easy here to fall into that well-rehearsed trope of saying that God is somehow like my son as he playfully danced over the rocks.  Such images of God idealize children in ways that I fear is unhelpful for our children and for us; while he is a good kid, and I am proud of him, my son is far from divine.  So I began to wonder if my son’s joy, even among those dull, gray rocks, might be best compared not to God’s nature but to human faith.

As we were comparing large and small rocks, I realized that faith is meant to be curious, exploring its world, comparing this to that, discerning which matters are big and weighty and which are not.  As we were playing hide-and-seek, I understood that faith is sometimes hidden, and when it is, it needs to be sought and found.  As we were creating other games to play, I thought that faith has to be creative, taking ordinary things and working to find the extraordinary in them.  And as I heard my son playing by himself outside, I recognized that faith is sometimes best when it is lived in relationships with others, but it is also important to recognize its individuality.  And mostly, I could watch my son and know that faith is meant to be playful and fun.  Even among the dry, dull, dusty rocks, faith can discover fun.  Even in the cold of late November, faith can discover fun.  Even when the adults all make us put on our jackets and mittens, faith can play and run and sing.

Jesus said, “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”  I wonder if Jesus could imagine a six-year-old boy wearing yellow crocs, a blue jacket, hand-knitted mittens, and Lightening McQueen jammies, playing with abandon in a small yard full of dull, gray rocks, in Winnemucca, Nevada.