Day 223

Isaiah 35–36 | Matthew 28 | Psalm 94

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Isaiah 35 opens with a picture that doesn’t make sense on its own.

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus.” (v1)

Deserts don’t bloom. At least not for long. They’re dry, unforgiving, and hostile to anything fragile.

I know, because I grew up in one.

Buckeye, Arizona wasn’t just hot—it was miles and miles of parched earth. And for a while my parents lived in Gila Bend, where the front of their house faced nothing but raw desert. We’d ride their quads out into the dust, weaving between cactus and creosote, exploring until the horizon disappeared. Out there, nothing came easy. You had to fight to survive.

So when Isaiah says the desert will blossom, I can almost feel the grit in my teeth. Because that’s not how deserts work.

From Barren to Beautiful

That’s the pattern of the Gospel. God takes the one place nothing should grow—a sealed tomb—and fills it with life.

Matthew 28 brings us to that moment: the angel rolling back the stone, the women hearing the words that changed everything—“He is not here, for He has risen.”

If there’s a greater example of beauty springing from barrenness, I can’t think of it. The place of death became the birthplace of unending life.

And it’s not just a one-time event in history. This is how God works in His people even today—bringing joy where there’s only been loss, hope where the ground feels cracked, purpose where it’s been empty for years.

Blooming in My Own Dust

I’ve seen deserts lately. I’m actually living in a barren one now.

But Isaiah’s vision reminds me that God doesn’t need good soil to bring life. He doesn’t wait for better conditions. He speaks, and even the driest ground blooms.

Maybe you’re standing in your own wilderness today. If so, you don’t have to make it rain. You just have to lift your eyes to the One who turns dust into gardens and graves into gateways.

Because if the desert can rejoice, so can you.

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Lord, thank You that You bring life to places where it seems impossible. Teach me to trust Your timing, even when the ground around me feels dry and silent. Let me see the first signs of Your work, even if they’re small. And give me the faith to believe that You can make the wilderness glad—starting with mine. Amen.