Love in the outback

Later I could see it. Not at first. Not when the ambulances were screeching to a halt and fear grabbed my gut. Not when every nerve, muscle, and brain cell was at alert; when every next moment was new, uncharted territory – the nurses, the doctor, the news, the heart-wrenching farewell.

But later I saw it. A year later, when the social worker said “When I watched you go through that day, I knew God was with you.” I agreed, because by then I had grasped the truth of Hosea 2:14, “I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her.”

The desert was the Australian outback at the end of the dry season. The means to get me there was my fun-loving husband Peter, who thrived on squeezing every drop of excitement out of given time. A trip to Australia to see a new grandson was a must, and a journey through the outback was something “anyone in their right mind would not pass up.”

I balked, but God spoke to me, reminded me of priorities and protection. “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast” (Psalm 139:9–10).

We spent six idyllic weeks on the eastern seashore before driving into the desert. The first night in the outback God came to us – came in a glorious sunset, the sky gone up in flame and all around us on the red earth “every common bush a fire.”

Several hours later we gazed up at a thousand “altar fires” burning in his expansive evening temple. We wiped a tear, we worshipped. Our Father’s love enveloped us like the bear hugs I remember my father giving me.

Days in the hushed isolation of “back of beyond” caused me to hear my heartbeat, helped to peel off the protective layers I’d devised to cover its content. God said to the Israelites that he led them into the desert to know what was in their hearts (Deuteronomy 8:2). God already knew; the purpose was that they might know. That I might know.

In that barren wasteland, far removed from the scaffolding that usually holds me up, helps keep my defences and facades in place, I uncovered fear. The fear I had pushed aside for so many years. The fear that my dear husband’s heart condition would mean an early death.

I battled the fear as it clawed at me. Tears flowed as my flimsy but comfortable blanket of denial was ripped away. Peter had given me a book to read – a book on widowhood. I had cried in his arms.

Then one morning in the middle of that outback, thousands of miles away from anyone we knew, Peter’s heart stuttered and stalled. Heaven opened and welcomed his soul. And I trembled. Every fibre within me shivered as I leaned against the tree that covered our camper. One desperate cry escaped my lips: “Lord, what am I going to do?”

A stranger stood beside me. He wore a glistening white shirt. An angel? Very gently he said, “I have come to look after you.” His words washed over me like soothing oil. The trembling eased. He touched my elbow, led me to others who cared for me, helped me through the day.

And later I realized how tenderly the Father speaks, how gently he leads, how strong his right hand is as we walk through the desert places in our lives. I learned that the valley of trouble leads to a door of hope (Hosea 2:15–16). And beyond that door blossoms healing, singing, and a deeper Father–child relationship.

But at first I couldn’t see all this.

Angelina Fast-Vlaar is the author of Seven Angels for Seven Days and lives with her husband Joe in St. Catharines, Ont., where they attend Bethany Community Church.