The wind whips viciously about our ears as we gaze out at the endless wadi. The sand curves into perfect, rippled angles, buttressed by gust after gust. Mirage after mirage rises from the dessert expanse. The words of poet Naomi Shihab Nye come to me: "Even at night in a desert, temperatures plummet, billowing tent flaps murmur to one other." What does this expanse murmur to me? What does it say of God? What does it say of belonging in an wasteland? What does it say of formation in the face of the desert wind?