Somewhere in between my helmet’s speakers, static crackles me out of the trance the hundreds of West Texas miles had lulled me into. The passing scenery video-loops in an endless replay—mesquite thicket, yucca with its waving antennas, a few goats, the occasional ocotillo bush aflame with a flock of orange flowers. The ground surrounding us is measured off by barbed wire, rusted to complement the sand and rocks. Wind scraped this land bare for millions of acres. These same high-warning winds roar today, leaving me isolated in my brain, even though I am wrapped around my husband on the back of a BMW motorcycle.
“You good?” His voice coming over my headset might as well be that of an alien—something I seriously wonder about for a moment, thinking I am hearing a crossed frequency in this empty, foreign place. When his words finally land me back in reality, we try to discuss the moon-like landscape, the power of the wind, the creatures who manage residency.
Riding a bike instead of sitting in a car equals the difference between a hot-air balloon and an airplane, between camping in a tent or staying in a hotel. It’s a step closer to being a participant, not just a spectator. As we pass, we catch the smell of BBQ smoke, the stench of a massive cattle lot, the choke of a truck’s exhaust, the sweetness of fresh-cut hay. On the motorcycle we feel the power of transportation under us, fitting in this land of the horse-mounted Comanche. We sense the air temperature drop when we pass a deep ravine, and we race to beat the sun’s heat of the day.
But the wind on this day flattens all senses. Smells and most sounds are exiled under its howl. This was the force that caused prairie madness amongst the pioneers. Now it catches at our helmets like balloons, giving us bobble-head syndrome. We lean into it and each other, then suddenly straighten in its absence beside a semi-truck, then lean again like a mouse batted around by a cat just for play. Our muscles grow sore just trying to keep limbs together.
My man and I attempt answers to “who would live here?” when we pass the occasional old camper dropped in the middle of nothing. Probably cattlemen and shepherds tending their herds. Others seeking wilderness out here: the scientist, the hermit, the outlaw, the spiritual. Jesus sought the wilderness for solitude as he fasted and prayed for the beginning of His ministry. His forty days ended with gut-wrenching temptation, followed by the comfort of angels. A couple of hundred years later, the desert fathers went looking for hardship, fearing that the end of martyrdom in Rome was making them soft. They stayed for the solitude. Perhaps they found that—at the edge of risk, outside of comfort—beauty shocks, life swells to fullness, joy blooms.
My husband and I enjoy road trips together. He’s my road warrior, handling most of our long distance driving, usually in a car. I’m the passenger princess. Over the years we’ve found a mutual appreciation of these long periods of quiet. After going through the radio options, saying what needs to be said, we contentedly settle into our own thoughts. Alone, together. A pause in conversation that doesn’t have to be filled out of insecurity or lack of knowledge. A communication on a different level, beyond words. Sure, we talk for hours. But at times we love the comfort of a relationship that doesn’t need noise.
But this day on the bike, we are forced into silence. When the wind covers the speaker-to-ear connection inside our helmets, even with the volume at the highest level, my man taps his microphone off. I hear the beep and descend again into my alone world.
Except I’m not alone. Seven hours of silent retreat, I decide. I can pray. I can try this “being quiet before God” thing. Maybe I will hear His voice over the wind.
My silent retreat doesn’t start with silence though. Rather, like any child exposed to the new, my words to Him flit about to everything. I declare my awe of the massive sky. I start prayers for each of my loved ones, until I get distracted by one lone cow and wonder how God keeps her alive out here. I give thanks for the adventurous trip we get to go on. I interrupt myself with panicked prayers for protection as my man accelerates to pass, then lapse into wisps of worship songs or memorized verses.
It takes a long time to get tired of myself and finally quit talking. Eventually all words hush. I still. Am I listening or just zoning out? I pay the ticket of quantity time in order to get to the quality time, which refuses to be pushed onto stage on cue. I hand over my most valuable assets, time and love, even though they don’t show their hand and my prize until the final call. No voice comes through the static. No reward stickers presented for sitting quietly. But there is peace. Joy, even.
After days of travel, we pull into the new parking lot of a new church for a conference. The music is quality; the speakers are fine; the place is fresh and clean and sheltered. But with my buzzing ears, gritty face, and wobbly sea legs, I don’t fit. I struggle to concentrate. A vague longing hovers, unsatisfied.
No great revelation came in the wilderness. No voice over the wind. But I long to do it again—to be alone, together with my Creator, as He watches me delight in a different part of His world. The warmth of relationship holds there. Nothing has to be said.
Tonia Stacey Gütting combines a deep passion for Jesus with a love of writing in her work which includes freelancing and writing devotionals for military families through American Bible Society. She has been published by Christianity Today, The Globe, YouVersion Bible App, and others. Married to a retired Army chaplain, Tonia and her husband now farm in Louisiana where she plays St. Francis to a couple of crazy pups, a small menagerie herd, and a grumpy cat. Tonia and Darrick raised and homeschooled 3 great military brats. She enjoys writing, teaching and speaking, reading and ruminating over a good cup of tea, as well as hiking and all things outdoors. You can read more of her work on her blog.
Ahh, beautiful! I love this different way of considering “alone, together.” Thank you for being faithful to the writing and sharing, Tonia!
Oof, I feel a little whiplash, and I needed it.