I distinctly remember our first church visit in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Having been relatively untouched by life, we were weary and beat down by this unwanted move. We hadn’t found a house yet— I don’t think we wanted to admit that this desert would be our home for the years to come. The band started playing, we got up from the pew and tears fell down our faces as we tried to sing along.

This is my prayer in the desert

When all that’s within me feels dry

This is my prayer in my hunger and need

My God is the God who provides

We didn’t know that the real desert of our life would come just a few days later and it would have nothing to do with our physical location. At our 20-week ultrasound the doctors told us our son had markers for Down syndrome. We waited, we prayed, we hoped they were wrong. They weren’t.

Although I feel very differently about Down syndrome now, the grieving that came after the official diagnosis was the darkest time of my life. It was two years ago this month. And here we are two years later grieving again, this time over our baby we never got to meet.

And this is my prayer in the fire

In weakness or trial or pain

There is a faith proved of more worth than gold

So refine me, Lord, through the flame

I recently attended a Down syndrome conference. As I was I was flying back home, my reality that I was able to escape for a few days, felt extra heavy. I put down my book and stared out the window trying to suppress the welling tears. The landscape below looked familiar. I turned on my screen to see where we were. We had just flown over Alamogordo—where the desert years of our lives began. As we flew further west to another desert that we now call home, I couldn’t help but wonder—when will we leave this place?

The desert is where we got not one, but two life-changing diagnoses. The desert is where we learned that the heart defect that seemed unlikely in our pregnancy, was in fact there and would require open-heart surgery. The desert is where we were worried about getting pregnant again and once we took that leap of faith it ended with a baby with no heartbeat.

The irony isn’t lost on me that our desert years are being spent in the actual desert. As I sat in the passenger seat on the way back from the airport, I hated the dry landscape surrounding me. When will there be green again? But we turned a corner and there it was—my mountain. The mountain that I have marveled at in my quiet times. The mountain that has reminded me of God’s grandness and that, that grandness also lives in me.

The desert is both ugly and beautiful. The two are intertwined.

I both hate and admire it here. Although the desert is dry, it’s the source of unique life. It produces striking things that simply can’t grow elsewhere. I cringe reliving the pain my heart has felt here, but I appreciate how it is shaping me.

The worst times of my life have played out in the desert, but so have some have the best. They may not be memories that I can point back to in pictures; they are deeper than that. I once believed that I was entitled to a smooth life, now I feel grateful for the life I have, even when the circumstances are agonizing. I’ve been moved to action in ways I never would have dreamed of had my life had not taken a desert detour. Despite the mounting sand piles and sharp cactus spines, my heart is finding a way to blossom here.

The truth is, we aren’t back in Alamogordo. We’ve been through the desert before. We’ve been without drops of water in and out of two years. This desert we are in now comes with a fresh perspective.

Even though it’s hard to see in this moment, I know this new wasteland will not be wasted.

All of my life

In every season

You are still God

I have a reason to sing

I have a reason to worship