I’m sure my Oklahoma friends will recall the historic drought that covered our state a few years back in 2022. That’s the setting for this short little chapter of my life that I’ve always thought of as “Blister Beetles.” And though it may be short, it probably (more like definitely) has been the most impactful chapter of my life. It’s the hardest “yes” I’ve ever had to say, and simultaneously the most freeing and healing. It was the start of a journey of surrender, one that even now, four years later, I’m still walking out, day by day. I’ve shared and written much about our time in my favorite little place in White Oak. Like the story I wrote that you could read here for some context, The White Oak Hills: A Tender Story of Loving the Land My Heart Calls Home. This Blister Beetles post doesn’t necessarily wrap up with any kind of definitive, curated ending, because it’s still being written by my Father, day by day. My hope and prayer are that if you’re reading this and find yourself in your own garden of decision, you’ll say “yes.” Goodness, it’s a journey, but it’s worth taking.

Blister beetles. Thousands upon thousands of them are swarming around my feet, so many that the ground looks to be moving. I knew swarms were devouring one garden after another in this historic 2022 Oklahoma drought, but I thought for sure they wouldn’t find mine up on this hilltop. But no, here I stand bewildered at the massive swarm that has descended on my garden. The garden I’ve fought stubbornly all Summer to keep alive. By morning’s light, I know they will have easily stripped my garden bare before moving on to the next patch that they find. The emotions of anger, sadness, frustration, and defeat all well up and fight for first place as I clench my fists and throw my head back towards the sky. I couldn’t even get the words “God, why?” off my tongue before a gentle and clear voice, “There’s a time to plant and a time to uproot.” It wasn’t a voice audible to my ears, but it was loud in my heart- I knew that passage from Ecclesiastes 3 as if it were ingrained in me, and I know this voice as a sheep knows its shepherd. I can still feel myself take a deep breath, unclench my fists, and surrender in the long exhale. “Okay, Father, I’ll Go.” I had no idea where we were going, but I knew he was asking me to follow. He had graciously been prepping me for months, but I had been digging my heels into the drought-ridden dirt under my feet- the same ground that was now being stripped away of any signs of life. See, He saw something about me that I didn’t want to see: the true condition of my heart. The places I didn’t want to touch, the hurt I didn’t want to face, and the healing that had not yet begun. There’s a passage in Matthew 13 where Jesus tells a parable of a farmer who went out to his fields to sow seeds. The seeds all fell on different soil, and the soil on which they fell determined what happened to the seed, whether it would be devoured, wither, choked out, or produce and be fruitful. God saw the true condition of the soil of my heart, even if I didn’t want to. And in His grace and loving kindness, He knew that if the soil of my heart wasn’t weeded, tilled, and fertilized, it would look just like the garden I was currently standing in; drought-stricken and being devoured by blister beetles.

Surrender is rarely a pleasant thing to feel at first; to relinquish your plans, ideas, comfort, and dreams. Yet, I’ve come to know something true of my Father- His goodness. I had spent the last two years on this piece of land tasting and seeing the goodness of my Father for myself, and I knew this was an invitation. It was an invitation to leave the comfort of this place I’d come to love deeply and step out into the unknown.

“Okay, Father, I’ll go.”