There are moments in life when something ordinary becomes a doorway into the divine. Thanksgiving night was one of those moments for me. My young second cousin—a brave little boy who has endured more than most adults ever will, from losing a kidney to enduring surgeries, procedures, and endless rounds of chemotherapy—was riding his bike at dusk.
The Mojave Desert had just been blessed with rain. And as he pedaled forward, the air filled with that unmistakable, earthy fragrance of the creosote bush—a scent that only appears after desert rain, a scent that feels ancient, clean, and deeply spiritual. It is the smell of my hometown, the smell of the Mojave breathing after a storm.
As I watched him ride, something within me stirred.
I know You’re here, God. I see You. I hear You through his little laughter. Your scent raises my spirits. Oh Lord, let him ride his bike in Your glory.
In that moment, it felt as though everything was connected—his resilience, the countless prayers lifted to heaven on his behalf, and that sacred desert aroma rising around us. It was as if God Himself whispered through the scent and the silence, reminding me that even in the hardest battles, He is near.
Though this little warrior still has a long road ahead—and we pray for the day he’ll ring the bell announcing remission—the scene before me felt like a gentle message from God. A reminder that hope isn’t loud. Sometimes it arrives on two small bicycle wheels at dusk, carried on the scent of desert rain.
Psalm 139:7–10
"Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Where can I flee from Your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, You are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, You are there…
even there Your hand will guide me,
Your right hand will hold me fast."
Lord, thank You for meeting us in the quiet moments—in the scent of rain, in the courage of a child, and in the places where our prayers rise to meet Your presence. Surround him with Your healing, Your strength, and Your glory as he rides forward into the life You have planned for him. Amen.
