Around 1406 b.c. a diviner stands on a jagged peak overlooking the arid wasteland. The wind carries the scent of dry dust and hot stone. Below him lies an encampment of immense scale. The tents of the traveling nation stretch out across the valley floor. He does not turn to his usual enchantments or cast lots to seek out omens. He simply lets his eyes rest on the ordered rows of canvas and wood. A quiet safety settles over the high places. The scene below looks less like a temporary military camp and more like a carefully tended plot of land ready for a long season of growth.
The Spirit of God moves over the observer. The Creator does not act as a distant general organizing a march; he reveals himself as a patient cultivator. He looks at this weary group of travelers and calls them beautiful. He describes them as fertile valleys reaching out into the sun. He sees them as aloe trees planted by his own hands and as tall cedars drawing life from deep currents. The Lord ensures their roots sink down into the damp soil. He pours water from heavy buckets so their seed will always find nourishment. He is the one who digs the furrows and guides the streams to the exact places where the young shoots need to drink.
We often view our own wandering years as barren deserts. We feel the sharp rocks under our feet and assume nothing good can sprout from such dry dirt. Yet the ancient imagery shows a different kind of cultivation. Fear often acts like a hard frost on the surface of our minds. It freezes the ground and tricks us into thinking all the sap has dried up forever. Anxiety wraps around our trunks like choking vines. We spend our energy trying to hack away the thorns rather than trusting the deep soil beneath us. The human heart requires a long season to break open the outer shell of a seed. We cannot rush the slow swelling of the roots or force the blossoms to open before the sun hits them right. Balak the king stands nearby and strikes his hands together. The harsh clapping cuts through the quiet air like a heavy spade striking a hidden rock. He wants to uproot the entire field in his anger. He demands curses to wither the branches and blight the harvest. Instead the prophet simply describes a future where the trees stand tall and a bright star rises over the orchard. A scepter eventually comes to crush the dry brush and clear the field of predators.
The heavy buckets sit full of fresh river water waiting to be poured out on the thirsty rows. The Master leaves nothing to chance when he prepares a plot of earth. He measures the exact volume of moisture required for every individual sapling. The wild ox might trample the edges of the field and the sharp arrows of enemies might fly through the outer leaves. The thick bark of the cedars simply absorbs the damage and heals over the wounds. The inner wood remains solid and wet with life.
A well watered root outlasts the hottest desert wind. The long gaze of the prophet catches the sunlight reflecting off the winding streams below. The desert floor transforms into a blooming forest right in front of his eyes.