Trees in the desert

Road to the Hopi mesas

When Luke and I got married in June 2000, we were wildly in love with each other and eager to begin a life and share a home together. But there was more than that. We also saw our marriage as a mission, in which we would go out into the world and work together to serve God and make it a better place. At the time, we envisioned ourselves heading to a third world country, where we would partner with others to bring full health to a community - Luke through medical service and teaching, and myself through community health outreach rooted in local churches. The day after our honeymoon ended, Luke started his third year medical school clinical rotations. The following month, I began coursework for my MPH in Health Behavior and Health Education. Things were going according to plan.

Five years later, training was finally over and our "real life" together was on the cusp of beginning. Luke was a fully-fledged, board-certified family physician. True, our plans had already shifted somewhat from what we envisioned as we said our vows. Although I earned my MPH on schedule, our subsequent openness to pregnancy was promptly answered (to our great surprise), and we were now the parents of a two-year old, with another baby on the way. I had discovered how encompassing motherhood could be, especially when your husband is a medical resident. My diploma (and all it represented) sat untouched in a file drawer.

In addition, Luke felt that his medical skills and confidence were not great enough to plunge immediately into a third-world situation. Instead, we chose to join the Indian Health Service and move to the Hopi Reservation in northeastern Arizona. Although we would still live in the United States, we would be fully immersed in a culture and environment that was significantly removed from mainstream America. Since the Hopi Health Care Center was the only medical facility within a 100 mile radius of high desert country, Luke would have the opportunity to practice emergency medicine, inpatient care, and obstetrics - this would prepare him well for possible overseas service. Meanwhile, he would be serving the underserved, and I hoped that I would find opportunities to employ my training and skills in service to the Hopi. We would be isolated enough that it would almost feel as if we were living in another country.

I grew up in rural Bangladesh, and remember a plaque on my parents' wall inscribed with a quote from Anne Frank: "I am young and strong and living a great adventure". This became my mantra for our life in Hopi. We moved there in August of 2005. I was eight months pregnant, great with child and hope and expectations. I gloried in the landscape of tumbleweed, buttes, and mesas that stretched in all directions. The logistical challenges of driving four hours round-trip to buy groceries excited me. We moved into a compound of houses attached to the medical center, and I couldn't wait to become part of the close community that existed there. I wanted to immerse myself in Hopi culture and develop close friendships with Hopi women. I wanted my children to grow up with Hopi playmates. We weren't going to be like those families that stayed for a couple years, paid off their medical school loans, then left the community high and dry. We would put down roots, and this would become our home.

Great with child, hope, and expectations
in our new backyard

We lasted three years and eight months. The first year was as exciting and hopeful as we anticipated. During the second year, a lot of our friends with children left, Luke's work picked up, and the isolation began to make itself felt. Some of the air leaked out of our balloon. The third year was marked by a difficult pregnancy and medical emergency at birth. Our last eight months were just plain survival. I spent most of my hours alone with our three kids, and Luke spent most of his hours working in an understaffed health care center. By the time we left, I no longer felt so young and strong. I felt frayed and chastened, in body and spirit. We weren't leaving with a sense of a mission well fulfilled. We were escaping.

View from our front window a couple of weeks before we moved away.
This is how my soul felt, too.

We did not move to a third-world country, where we would minister together while living a simple life in community. We moved to a beautiful town in the Pacific Northwest, near to family, and purchased a lovely house. Luke continues to work for the Indian Health Service, but he now works decent hours in an outpatient clinic, and spends almost every night and weekend at home. We do not live on the reservation. The children are growing up in a safe community, one with many opportunities. We are surrounded by blessing, and I recognize how much we needed these gifts and have been warmed and nourished by them.

But as much as I feel gratitude for all we've been given, I struggle with a sense of failure. What went wrong with our great adventure at Hopi? Should we have been stronger? Are we sell-outs to our sense of mission by living here, where things are easier? Or is it possible that this is the life we're called to lead together, even though it's not particularly difficult or adventurous?

As much I speak grace to others, it's hard to speak it to myself, and even more difficult to hear and believe it. And so I think God sometimes sends me images of grace - pictures and metaphors that go beyond words. These images don't answer all my questions (and I think we're meant to live in the tension), but they give hope. This is the story of the gift-image he's given me this year:

Luke chose our Hopi yard to begin his very first garden. It is difficult to imagine a more challenging place to garden for the very first time. If you look back to the first picture in this post, you can see what our back yard looked like when we moved in. The ground was so hard that the men who installed our satellite internet dish literally used a jackhammer to make a hole. The soil was heavy clay and needed serious amendment. It rained only a few times a year. The only thing that grew easily was tumbleweed, and since it blew everywhere all the time, our yard was filled with millions of tumbleweed seeds that sprouted up thickly with any watering.

Gardening with Anna after a rain. Note the hammer as a gardening tool.

Yes, this is our early garden, and these are some things we planted.

Despite all these challenges, Luke made things grow in our yard. They didn't always grow very well, and a lot of them died. But he brought a lot of beauty to that space, and brought me a lot of joy.

Magic!

Luke's planting efforts included five trees - two cottonwoods, two Navajo willows, and one peach tree. Trees were in short supply in our neighborhood, and when you mentioned jogging or walking to "The Tree and back", everybody knew exactly which tree you were talking about - the lovely cottonwood in the wash a mile and a half away. It was worth the hike because trees were scarce.

I loved the little trees in our yard. Every spring, I would anxiously examine their branches for buds, and it always seemed magical when they put out leaves. One of them died off, but when we left, there were still four that were holding on. We hoped that the renters after us would continue to care for the garden. Knowing how much work that entailed, though, we tried to let it go and hope that something might survive.

Luke in scrubs with the backyard cottonwood

This past February, Luke had a conference in Phoenix, and we decided travel to Arizona as a family, take a few days off after the conference ended, and return to Hopi. We wanted our daughters to see where they were born and wanted all three children to experience the place that shaped our family so profoundly. I'm so glad we went. The trip back was fun and intense. The beauty of the reservation was still just as profound, and so was the sadness and hardness.

We didn't know what we would find when we revisited our house. It had been almost eight years since we left Hopi. Would anything remain to honor the hours Luke spent working on the yard and creating beauty from dry clay? As we rounded the corner and our house came into view, the first thing I saw was that our trees were still there. Three our of four remained. And they had grown! No longer were they baby trees, but they were strong and hardy. Although it was February and they were winter-bare, they were undeniably alive. The peach tree in the backyard had spread its branches wide, shading and protecting the bedroom window behind it. And the cottonwood in the front yard - the one planted outside the dining room window - was at least ten feet taller than the house. To make my joy complete, its bare branches held the remains of a bird's nest.

Baby peach tree

Grown-up peach tree

This is God's gift-image to me. In our dry, brown, unforgiving yard, we planted something of beauty that outlasts us and continues to grow and bless others. Our trees did not die, but are flourishing in the desert. They provide shade in the summer, the color green, the soothing sound of wind blowing through leaves, maybe even sweet peaches in the fall. And they provide homes for birds.

Baby cottonwood in our front yard

Grown-up cottonwood with bird's nest

When I picture our trees, I dare to believe that our sojourn at Hopi produced more than two lovely daughters. Maybe, in the dry and hard desert soil of those years, something of lasting beauty was planted in us, and has been growing, watered by the generous rains of our life here. Maybe it will become tall and strong enough to bless others and make the world a better place. Maybe it already is.

Returning from The Tree 2006 (two children)
Hopi Health Care Center, our house, and First Mesa in background

Returning from The Tree 2009 (three children)

Returning from The Tree February 2017