When the Desert Blooms

I never saw it coming.

When I moved to Fargo, I thought I was ready for the change. I had navigated moves before, walked away from familiar places, and built new lives in new spaces. But this time, the homesickness crept in like an uninvited guest, settling heavily in my chest. Loneliness became a steady echo in my days. I cried every single day until July 4th - sometimes quietly, sometimes in deep sobs that left me exhausted. I hadn’t anticipated how much the absence of familiar voices, streets, and rhythms would sting.

It felt like God had led me into a desert, a wide, quiet, aching place, I hadn’t prepared for. At first, I fought it. I tried to fill the silence, numb the ache, convince myself it wasn’t so bad. But deserts have a way of stripping you down to what matters. Slowly, God began to whisper in the stillness. He was not wasting this wilderness.

In the emptiness, I found a deeper hunger for Him. My prayers became raw; my trust stretched farther than I thought it could reach. I began to notice tiny blooms in the barren ground, peace that didn’t make sense, hope that flickered where it shouldn’t, and joy that showed up in unexpected ways.

Last week, I returned to Illinois to pick up my car, see family, and spend time with friends. Would going back to my old home reopen the wound? Would leaving again make the desert feel even drier? Would the comfort of familiar arms and laughter make Fargo feel emptier when I returned?

To my surprise, it didn’t.

Instead, I came back to Fargo with peace in my heart and confidence in my steps. My time in Illinois had been a gift - long conversations, honest prayers, and deep laughter with people who have known my journey through both storms and sunshine. The conversations were so rich and meaningful that taking photos didn’t even cross my mind most of the time. I wasn’t there to capture moments on a screen; I was there to be fully present in them. In fact, I only took two photos the entire week - a snapshot from lunch with my great grandma, who is 104 years old, and my great aunt. The single picture of my grandma and I holds more meaning than an entire album could because it reminds me not just of her long life, but of the living, breathing moments of connection that matter most.

Much of the trip was spent in my car, talking to God, reflecting on what He has done in me over the last few months. Those miles felt like sacred ground, an altar stretched across highways and backroads.

And now, back in my apartment, I realize something: the desert was never meant to destroy me. It was meant to prepare me. It was where God taught me to listen, to trust, to find Him in the quiet.

Home isn’t just where I came from. It’s where God is leading me. And here in Fargo, the desert is blooming.

Lord, thank You for meeting me in the desert places, for turning tears into trust and emptiness into peace. Thank You for the gift of deep conversations, for sacred miles on the road, and for the blessing of time with those I love. Teach me to live fully in each moment, to choose presence over distraction, and to see Your hand at work in every season. May my heart remain open to the places You lead me, and may the deserts of my life continue to bloom with Your grace. Amen.