Abiding in the Dry Land

When the Soul Refuses All but God

“O God, you are my God, for you I long;

for you my soul is thirsting.

My body pines for you

like a dry, weary land without water.”

— Psalm 63

There are seasons when the soul knows with terrifying clarity that nothing in this world can quench its thirst. Not ministry. Not reputation. Not affection. Not even the sweetness of prayer when it is sought for consolation rather than for God Himself. The earth cracks beneath our feet and we discover that we too are cracked. A dry and weary land without water.

And yet the thirst is mercy.

The psalm does not say that the land is mistaken in its dryness. It does not deny the ache. It does not rush to fill it with noise or pious distraction. It stands in the desert and names the hunger. My soul clings to you. My body pines for you. Not for relief. Not for explanation. For You.

This is the heart of abiding. To remain not because we are satisfied but because we refuse every lesser satisfaction. To stay with Him when the mouth is parched and prayer feels like dust. To seek His face in the sanctuary not because we feel glory but because we remember it. I have gazed on you in the sanctuary to see your strength and your glory. Memory becomes fidelity. Fidelity becomes love stripped bare.

There is a fierce purity in this longing. The psalmist does not negotiate. He does not ask God to restore the old securities. He does not demand that the wilderness bloom immediately. He simply turns his thirst into praise. My lips will praise you. My soul shall be filled as with a banquet. But notice the order. Praise first. Fulfillment later. Love first. Consolation as gift, not entitlement.

Abiding means clinging when the night stretches long. My soul clings to you; your right hand holds me fast. The mystery is that our clinging is already held. Our desire to remain is itself sustained by Him. The thirst that burns in us is His own life stirring within the dust of our hearts.

There are hours when we feel abandoned in the wilderness of our own limitations. Words fall flat. Efforts seem small. The body is tired. The mind is scattered. But beneath all of that there is a single cry that will not die. You are my God. Not a concept. Not an idea. Not a role I perform. My God.

To abide in Him is to let that cry become constant. To let it echo through the chapel silence, through the small duties of love, through the unseen sacrifices that no one applauds. To let it purify us of the need to be nourished by anything less than His steadfast love, which is better than life.

Better than life. That is the scandal. That is the freedom.

When the soul finally believes this, even partially, the world loses its tyranny. We still walk through it. We still serve. We still love those entrusted to us. But we are no longer begging it to save us. The desert becomes place of meeting. The dryness becomes doorway. The thirst becomes prayer without ceasing.

And in that hidden abiding, even before the banquet is felt, the soul begins to rest under the shadow of His wings.