The Oasis in the Desert: What God’s Blessing Really Means to Me

“The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make His face shine upon you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you,
And give you peace.”   — Numbers 6:24–26 (NKJV)

A Personal Letter from Stan Balcom Part 4

As I approached late middle age, I became born again. An old man in the world became a new child in Christ. And like many new believers, I carried an assumption that turned out to be wrong. I believed that God’s blessing meant an end to suffering; that once His face shone upon me, life would smooth out, prosperity would follow, and the hardships I had endured for years would finally loosen their grip.

But the suffering didn’t stop. And when it didn’t, I found myself wondering—like many new Christians do—Is this blessing even real? Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I misunderstood what God promised.

Over time, through a lot of lived experience, I discovered a truth far deeper: God’s blessing is not found in the absence of suffering. God’s blessing is found in the rest, the comfort, and the peace He gives in the middle of suffering. His blessing is not the removal of the desert. It is the oasis in the desert.

I learned this lesson in the most unlikely place—the deserts of Sudan.

For a season of my life, I worked with Ethiopian refugees who fled persecution under a brutal communist regime to the refugee camps in Sudan. My job took me across Sudan—one of the hottest, driest, most unforgiving landscapes on earth. Most of the work took place in Khartoum, Sudan’s capital city. Life there was difficult. Sudan was under Sharia (Islamic law), and my co-workers and I were heavily restricted in our movements. Water was scarce, and the heat—some days reaching 120+ degrees—combined with frequent power outages made daily life difficult. And for a short time, snipers looking to kill an American made it dangerous as well. I can say with first-hand experience that suffering was going on in Sudan in the 1980s.

At one point, a colleague and I had to fly to Port Sudan to serve refugees there. When we finished our work, two things happened. First, our flight back to Khartoum was cancelled indefinitely—we would have to take a bus. Second, the hotel refused to return our passports unless we “spoke” to the police chief. As usual in many poor parts of the world, money changed hands, and our passports magically appeared.

That might not seem too bad, but the bus route went from Port Sudan on the Red Sea to Kassala, a town on the border with Ethiopia, and then on to Khartoum. It was a total of 720 miles—through the Sahara.

We then boarded a bus for the thirty-six-hour journey back to Khartoum. Imagine nothing but flat land—360 degrees of sand, dust, and shimmering heat. Temperatures hovered between 110 and 120 degrees. There were no real roads and no rest stops with amenities. The bus occasionally stopped at police checkpoints where passengers were shaken down for cash or valuables, or at villages where we could buy oranges, or to use the “bathroom.” By bathroom, I mean you walked out into the open desert, turned your back, dropped your pants, squatted, and hoped a convection wave didn’t knock you over.  No clean water. No restaurants. Just survival.

That trip took roughly thirty-six hours. That was suffering too, plain and simple.

Once back in Khartoum, despite not sleeping, my colleague and I did not return to our apartment. Fortunately, the American Embassy operated a place called the American Club—a small refuge for expatriates. Breakfast with steak and eggs. A cheeseburger if you wanted it. A clean swimming pool with filtered water. Shade. Cold drinks. Rest. We went there dusty, smelly, and tired.

Going from that bus ride through the desert to that oasis felt like stepping into heaven.

Thinking about my time in Sudan is when it clicked for me:  This world—no matter where you go, no matter how rich or poor—is a desert. It is ruled by the evil one (1 John 5:19), and suffering is part of the landscape. Some people experience very little; some experience far too much, but nobody escapes it entirely. The journey is hard. Sometimes humiliating. Sometimes exhausting. Sometimes long.

But God gives us oases.  Moments of rest. Moments where He “covers you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge” (Psalm 91:4 NKJV). These are not permanent places. They are not the final destination. They are His grace—His mercy—set right in the middle of the devil’s territory.

God’s grace came in the form of the American Club in the middle of Sudan.

It doesn’t erase the desert. It doesn’t remove the suffering. But it refreshes you and restores you. It prepares you to keep going.

And the eternal world—the kingdom of God—is the true and final oasis. That is the permanent one. The one where suffering ends forever.

In the meantime, while we walk this world’s long, hot roads, God invites us not only to rest in His oases but to be an oasis for others—to offer grace to fellow travelers, to suffer alongside them, to show them glimpses of the world that is coming.

This Thanksgiving, let’s be thankful to the oases.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NKJV)