Every morning when I walk out to feed the horses, I pass what looks like a failed project: a blue pool liner folded over on itself, metal rails stacked neatly beneath the porch of our outbuilding, and plastic connectors gathered in a bucket, waiting for another chance.

Some mornings I hardly notice it. Other mornings I find myself stopping for a moment, looking at the pile of pieces, and quietly thinking, “Maybe tomorrow.” Then the Arkansas heat reminds me that tomorrow may have to wait.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This was supposed to be the summer that I found a little relief.

As I write this, much of central Arkansas is under an Extreme Heat Warning. For most people, that means staying inside a little more often and drinking extra water. For me, living with primary myelofibrosis, it means something more. The heat drains me faster now. Simple chores have to be planned carefully—feeding the horses, checking on the chickens, or walking the property all come with the same quiet question: “How long can I stay outside before my body tells me it’s time to stop?”

I’ve had to learn something that has never come naturally to me: limits. Anyone who knows me knows I enjoy projects. I love building things, improving things, and dreaming about what our little corner of God’s creation could become. Accepting that my body now sets boundaries I never asked for has been one of the hardest lessons of this journey.

A Gift Wrapped in Hope

That’s one of the reasons my parents gave us an early birthday present this year: an 18-foot above-ground pool. Not because they thought we needed a prettier backyard, and not because they wanted us to have a place to entertain. They gave it to us because they love us. They knew what that pool could become—a place to cool off during an Arkansas summer, a place to rebuild strength without putting additional strain on my body, and a place to prepare for whatever treatments may lie ahead. A place where, even if only for a little while, cancer wouldn’t be the loudest thing in my life.

It wasn’t simply a birthday gift. It was hope wrapped in cardboard boxes, metal poles, and a blue vinyl liner.

Our first blessing actually came before we ever opened the box. Since we lease our property, we weren’t sure our landlord would approve putting up a pool. We expected that conversation to be our first hurdle, but he immediately said yes. One obstacle removed—or so we thought.

Finding a level place for the pool proved far more difficult than we expected. What looked flat wasn’t flat at all, and we quickly realized we didn’t have the heavy equipment—or honestly the physical stamina—to reshape the ground the way it needed to be done. After looking at every possible option, we finally decided to put the pool together anyway and hope it would be close enough.

Despite the heat, assembly itself went surprisingly well. Every so often we’d climb back into the truck, turn the air conditioning on full blast, and sit there until our bodies cooled enough to head back outside.

Then came the waiting. Because we’re on well water, filling an 18-foot pool wasn’t as simple as turning on a hose and walking away. We wanted to be good stewards of the residential well that provides water for our home, so we made a plan to fill it just a couple of hours each day before shutting everything off to let the system recover. It would take well over a week before the pool was full. We didn’t care; each evening the water climbed a little higher, and with it, our excitement.

Joy Before the Finish Line

One afternoon, we couldn’t wait any longer and decided to climb in. Not because there was enough water to swim—there wasn’t. There wasn’t even enough water to float.

Instead, Chris, our teenager, and I laid on our stomachs in a few inches of wonderfully cold water and scooted ourselves around the bottom of the pool, using our hands and feet to smooth every wrinkle we could find in the liner. If someone had driven by, I’m sure we looked absolutely ridiculous: two adults and a teenager sliding around an unfinished pool in ankle-deep water, splashing each other, laughing, and trying to flatten wrinkles while enjoying every second of that cool relief.

Looking back, I think that’s one of my favorite parts of this entire story. For a little while, cancer wasn’t the loudest thing in my life. The doctor’s appointments faded into the background. The medications weren’t on my mind. Neither was the uncertainty of what the future may hold. We were simply together. Joy had already shown up—even though the pool wasn’t finished.

Then, reality set in. We noticed one side of the pool was nearly six inches deeper than the other. The ground simply wasn’t level enough. If we continued filling it, thousands of gallons of water would constantly push against one side of the frame. We had no choice. We drained it.

Watching those first few days of progress disappear back into the yard was discouraging. It felt like all of our excitement was draining away with the water. Still, we weren’t ready to quit. Thankfully, we had enough extra money to purchase a tiller. Chris spent hours working the ground, trying to make it as level as possible. Somewhere during that process, while trying to improve the site, one of the support rails was accidentally bent and had to be replaced.

Another setback. Another expense. Another delay.

Scattered Pieces and Unexpected Guilt

By the time the replacement arrived, the Arkansas heat had become almost unbearable. So once again… we waited. When temperatures finally eased enough for us to try again, our nephew came outside to help us. The pool went back together, hope returned, the hose came back out, and water slowly began climbing the sides once again.

Then we noticed something else: a tiny hole in the bottom of the liner. Small enough that we hadn’t noticed it before, but big enough that we couldn’t ignore it. We decided we’d simply order a patch kit, repair the leak, and move on. Just a few more days. Just one more delay.

Then, before the patches ever arrived, a powerful storm rolled through. Not a tornado, and not even a storm anyone else will probably remember—just one incredibly strong burst of wind. Strong enough to grab hold of an almost-empty pool and flip it completely upside down.

When everything settled, the liner was twisted, the frame had been stressed, and the plastic connectors had endured far more strain than they were ever designed to handle. I stood there looking at it, wondering, “Are we ever going to enjoy this pool?”

For the first time, giving up sounded easier than trying again. I also found myself carrying an unexpected feeling: guilt. My parents had given us such an incredibly thoughtful gift, and all I could see was a pile of parts scattered across the yard that we hadn’t been able to enjoy.

Our nephew quietly took the initiative to disassemble everything before more damage could be done. Today, the liner still lies folded in the yard, and the frame sits neatly stacked beneath the porch. Almost every day, as I walk out to feed the horses or check on the chickens, I pass it. Sometimes I stop and look at it, quietly thinking, “Maybe tomorrow.” Then the heat reminds me that tomorrow may have to wait.

I wish I had the strength to spend an entire afternoon leveling the ground. I wish my body recovered the way it used to. I wish I didn’t have to think about temperatures before I thought about projects. But wishing doesn’t change reality. So instead, I’ve been asking God what He might be trying to teach me through the waiting.

Faithfulness in the Rearview Mirror

As I reflected on all of this, my thoughts kept returning to the Israelites in the wilderness. I’ve often wondered what those years must have felt like. We usually remember the great miracles—the Red Sea, manna from heaven, water flowing from a rock, and the pillar of cloud by day and fire by night. But what about all of the ordinary days in between?

The days when they simply packed up camp, followed the cloud, and walked. How many mornings did they wake up wondering when they would finally reach the Promised Land? How many afternoons did the desert heat wear them down? How many evenings did they wonder if tomorrow would be any different?

Yet every single day, whether they recognized it or not, God was providing exactly what they needed. Not always what they wanted, and not always according to their timeline, but always according to His faithfulness.

Isn’t that often how God works in our lives? Looking back, I can clearly see His fingerprints through so many seasons.

I remember the day Chris and I were driving home after lunch with my parents when one of our tires suddenly went flat. We managed to pull into the first parking lot we found, which happened to be the Cabot Fire Department. Chris went inside just to let them know we’d be changing a tire in their parking lot. Instead, several firefighters came outside and insisted on changing it for us.

Another time, a storm brought a massive tree crashing into our horse pasture. When we first saw it lying across the electric fence, we were certain our horses had escaped. Instead, the tree had fallen in just the right way—the fence held, and our horses were completely safe.

Moments like those remind me that God’s faithfulness is often much easier to recognize in the rearview mirror than through the windshield. When we’re living through difficult seasons, it’s easy to wonder where He is. Then one day we look back and realize He was there every single step of the way.

The True Oasis

Perhaps this pool will someday become another one of those stories. One day I believe it will finally stand where it’s supposed to. I’ll ease into the cool water after another hot Arkansas afternoon, and it will strengthen my body, provide relief, and help prepare me for whatever lies ahead.

But I hope I never forget that God was already providing something long before the pool was finished:

• He was providing laughter.
• He was providing family.
• He was providing perseverance.
• He was providing hope.
• Most importantly, He was providing His presence.

Isaiah 43:19 reminds us of God’s promise:

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

God never promised His people they would avoid every wilderness; He promised He would make a way through it. An oasis isn’t valuable because the desert disappears—it’s valuable because it reminds us we are not walking through the desert alone.

Maybe your own “pool” looks nothing like mine. Maybe it’s a diagnosis, a marriage you’re praying will heal, a dream that has been delayed far longer than you expected, a job you’re still waiting for, or a prayer you’ve prayed so many times you’ve almost stopped counting.

If that’s where you find yourself today, don’t lose heart. Keep leveling the ground. Keep putting the pieces back together. Keep trusting the God who has never abandoned you in the waiting.

Sometimes the oasis isn’t something we discover at the end of the journey; sometimes it’s something God is quietly creating within us while we’re still walking through the wilderness.