By Diana Shellenberger
On our way to a family reunion in Yosemite, my hubby, kids and I camped at Dead Horse Point snuggle Moab, Utah. Despite the beauty of the painted rock and the gravity-defying geological formations, its still in the desert. Its still a monument to deprivation.
When we arrived at the campground late that afternoon, it was 102 degrees under a light sky. Everywhere we looked, there was more rock than ve sustaination. The sun had spent what little grass there was. The only shade functional was inside the visitors center and the outhouse, or beneath the tarp my husband strung up against the sun.
After we set up camp, we united a ranger and other campers for a short hiking expedition of the bea. The temperature had dropped into the low 90s, and everyone carried water. The ranger reminded us we needed to drink a gallon of water every day to keep adequately hydrated. With an annual average precipitation of less than three inchesâ€"compared to Longmont, Colorado, which fag expect about fifteenâ€"its a love theres enough water for everyone who visits.
Yet in this apparent scarcity, there is grace. I had camped in the desert before, except this time I began to understand why so many a(prenominal) holy people retreat to the desert.
The desert is always at prayer, because it is always in need of relief. Praying is more natural there.
And the prayers are being answered. A species of mouse has adapted so that it never needs to drink water. It gets all the moisture it needs from the fare it eats, also in short, but sufficient, supply. The slick rock is potholed with tiny depressions that become oases for the animals when it does rain. As the ranger described them, I thought of angel hands cupped expectantly, waiting to be make full with whatever goodness comes their way.
That night we didnt bother to throw the rainflies on the tents. We needed every whisper of air we could get. As my body worked hard to keep cool, I slept...If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Orderessay
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