I hate it here

God, if I’m honest, I hate it here.

This wilderness. This barren stretch of days that taste like dust. I know You’re with me — I do —

but sometimes the silence of heaven feels heavier than chains, and the ache of waiting hollows out my chest.

I thought obedience would bloom with gentle lilies, not bleed me dry upon scorching sands.

I thought freedom would dance with laughter,

not whisper loneliness across midnight watches.

I thought walking with You would be a symphony, not the quiet throb of a heart learning how to keep beating

when dreams grow brittle.

But here I am.

Hands trembling, shoulders stooped,

eyes raw from scanning the horizon for a promise that feels like it’s always just beyond the next rise.

And yet — I stay.

Not because it’s comfortable.

Not because I understand.

Not even because I always want to.

But because deep calls unto deep,

and something buried in my bones knows

that You are weaving eternity into these weary steps.

Maybe the wilderness isn’t punishment after all.

Maybe it’s the holy forge where illusions are burned away, where idols shatter underfoot,

where who I thought I was is stripped to reveal

who You want me to become.

Maybe it’s where my roots reach desperately for water, and discover springs I never would have tasted had the rivers not run dry.

So I will keep walking this thirsty path.

I will lift these tear-streaked eyes

to the stars You flung like lanterns across the desert night. I will do the next right thing, even with a quaking heart, trusting that You cherish my trembling offering more than perfect composure.

Because You are not merely leading me to the promise. You are the promise.

You are writing fulfillment into my story

long before I see the fields ripe with joy.

And perhaps the greatest miracle is not Canaan’s milk and honey,

but learning — here, in the dust —

that You alone are enough.

So let the wilderness do its sacred work.

Let it prune me of lesser loves.

Let it teach me how to hunger and thirst

not just for relief, but for You.

Until the day dawns, and I realize

the desert was not the death of me —

it was the birthplace of an unshakeable hope,

and a heart that beats only for You.