The word of the Lord came to him [Elijah], saying, “Go hide yourself by the brook Cherith, which is east of the Jordan. It shall be that you will drink of the brook, and I have commanded the ravens to provide for you there.”
So he went and did according to the word of the Lord, for he went and lived by the brook Cherith, which is east of the Jordan. The ravens brought him bread and meat in the morning and bread and meat in the evening, and he would drink from the brook. It happened after a while that the brook dried up, because there was no rain in the land.
1 Kings 17:2-7, NASB
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When the dry writing spells come (and they always do), it can feel like you’re Elijah sitting by the brook Cherith. You know you’re where you’re supposed to be, but the words are gone. The brook is but a trickle. Your only food is what the ravens bring.
At first, you might complain. Maybe you think you’re entitled to more. I followed where You called, God, and look where that’s gotten me! That was much the complaint Jonah offered. He didn’t like it when God showed mercy and grace to the nasty people of Nineveh. He wanted fire and brimstone. More to the point, he wanted a God who would cater to his whims and wishes.
That might not be you. Maybe you’re more like Job. You know God is in control, even when your throat is scratched raw by the words that refuse to come out. They’re there, somewhere. They’ve just disappeared. Sackcloth and ashes. Friends with platitudes and moral lessons. You turn away, wonder if this dry spell will ever come to an end.
It’s the wondering that can be the turning point. You have two choices. You can join Jonah and mope about the loss of a shade tree that was never yours to begin with. The other choice: you can follow Elijah’s example.
Elijah didn’t complain about being sent into the wilderness. He went. He followed God in trusting obedience, and God provided. The brook shared its water. Ravens brought bread and meat. Elijah played no part in that provision; his only duty was to wait.
As he did, he must have become more alert to the beauty and perils of the wilderness. They were his constant companions but for the trickling of the brook and the visiting of ravens. His senses became more and more attuned to those things. He knew the bubbling of the brook as he would know his closest friend. He timed his days by the ravens. He waited in expectation.
That is what a dry spell can be. It can be a glorious adventure in which you learn to wait, to be alert to the Spirit’s movement. He’ll provide for you in the dry spells. It might only be a word here and there—the presence of a brook, the coming of ravens—but one will come. It will be enough. It is enough. It will last you through the night and through the day. Another word comes. Another, until the brook dries up and the ravens stop delivering food.
God appears. He says it’s time to move on, and you go, following, trusting, feeling the words eke into life, swelling in your belly, your throat, so big and so loud that you can’t contain them. Your heart overflows with a good theme, and the words come, a torrent. You discovered the words of life while spending time with God in the wilderness, and they pour forth, a brook and a raven for the widow next door or your friend, another writer, who’s entering her own dry spell.
Image: Ingrid Taylar (Creative Commons)