The wilderness, though seemingly barren and difficult, is presented not as a punishment but as a sacred space for profound spiritual growth, deep intimacy with the divine, and the transformation of past wounds into sources of strength and healing.
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This wilderness is not a punishment. It
is a sanctuary.
It is not the end of your promise. It is
the birthing room of your praise.
Yes, this land feels barren.
Yes, the fruit seems distant.
Yes, the path seems hidden, but hear me.
It is in the wilderness that I whisper deepest.
deepest.
It is in the still empty places that my
voice grows loudest in your spirit. It
is when you are stripped of distraction,
when your hands are no longer grasping
lesser things, that your heart finally
becomes free to receive me fully. And I
am here
in the middle of the nothingness. I am
everything. This wilderness is where joy
is made real. Not the joy the world
gives the temporary, the conditional,
the loud and fleeing.
And oh, this is deeper.
This is joy that roots in the soil of surrender.
surrender.
Joy that rises like a spring from unseen places.
places.
Joy that defies the circumstances and
testifies to something eternal. Is joy
that comes not from what you have but
from who you belong to. Joy that can
dance even when the ground shakes.
Joy that can sing even when the answer
hasn't come.
Joy that is not tied throughout them but
anchored in my presence.
Do you remember how Israel wandered in
the desert? Do you remember how I fed
them? How I led them? How I revealed my
glory not in comfort but in cloud and
fire? So too in your wilderness I am
showing myself to you in ways you never
would have seen in the land of ease.
You are being drawn closer, purified
deeper, and taught to sing without a
stage, to worship without an audience,
to love me without condition.
The world says joy is found in having
everything you want. But I say joy is
found in knowing you have me. And here
in the wilderness where everything else
falls away, I remain considu.
The rock that gives water, the bread
that sustains,
the shepherd who never sleeps.
My joy is your strength. Not the
strength to escape, but the strength to
endure with peace that passes understanding.
understanding.
Let go of the lie that the wilderness is
wasted time.
Every step you take is watched. Every
tear you cry is counted. Every prayer
you whisper into the wind is heard and
cherished. I am doing something unseen
in you. Building endurance, refining
faith, anchoring identity.
And soon, when the time is right, you
will emerge not the same. You will leave
this wilderness not broken, but blessed,
not barren, but brimming with life you
didn't know could flourish in desert soil.
soil.
Sing, my child. Sing even here. Sing
before the breakthrough. Let the
wilderness hear your song. Let the dry
land echo with praise. Let your voice
rise like incense, like dew on scorched
ground, like a river carving through the
dust. Your praise is planting seeds.
Your joy is preparing the rain. You may
not see it yet, but the clouds are gathering.
gathering.
The season is shifting. What felt
lifeless will bloom again. You will
laugh again. Not just polite laughter,
but deep bellish shaking joy. Joy that
comes from knowing I was with you all along.
along.
Joy that testifies
I met God in the wilderness and I will
never be the same. So take my hand, beloved.
beloved.
Don't rush through this sacred place.
There is joy here. There is intimacy
here. There is glory here. And when you
walk out of this wilderness, you will
carry the joy of one who knows me
deeply. One who sings because they have
been held by me in the silence.
My precious child, I know where you've
been hurt. I know the places in your
soul that still flinch, still ache,
still bleed beneath the surface of your
smile. You have tried to forget, to
bury, to move on without truly mending.
But I see what others do not. I see the
scars you carry and the stories they
hold. And I am not repelled by your
brokenness. I am drawn to it. Because I
see not just wounds but windows.
I see not just pain but purpose.
I see not just what hurt you but what I
will heal and use for glory.
These wounds, yes, even these are about
to shine. You think healing means forgetting.
forgetting.
You think restoration erases the memory.
But I tell you, true healing does not
cover the scar, it transforms it. It
gives it voice. It turns it into light.
My son's wounds remained even after
resurrection. Not because they
represented defeat, but because they
became the eternal proof of love. So
too, the wounds you carry will not
define your shame. They will declare
your survival.
I know it hurt. I know it wasn't fair. I
know it felt like it would destroy you.
And yet here you are still breathing,
still believing, still hoping even when
hope has felt like betrayal.
That is not weakness, my child. That is
holy resilience.
That is divine strength hidden in
fragile flesh. That is the image of your
creator alive in you. You have looked at
your past and said, "Why did this
happen?" But I say to you, "Watch what I
will do with it." But the enemy meant
for harm, I will turn for good. Whatever
I used to wound you, I will use to heal nations.
nations.
You have walked through fire, and though
it burned, it did not consume you. You
have been crushed. And though it broke
you open, it did not end you. I was
there every moment, every tear, every
silent scream.
And now I am gathering what was
shattered and breathing life back into
it. This is the season where your wounds
become beacons.
Not of pity but of power. Not of tragedy
but of testimony.
I will use what almost killed you to
bring others back to life. Your stars
will become sacred signs that I still
heal, still redeem, still raise the dead
things back to glory. The world will
look at you and see not the damage but
the divine. They will see beauty where
there once was bleeding.
You are not damaged goods. You are holy evidence.
evidence.
So show me the places that still tremble.
tremble.
The parts you've hidden, even from yourself.
yourself.
Let me place my hand on the places that
Achen speak peace over them. Not a peace
that denies the pain, but a peace that
overcomes it. I will not leave you in pieces.
pieces.
I will make you whole. I will walk you
through the memory, not to retraumatize
you, but to release you. And when we
reach the other side, you will shine.
Yes, you will shine. Not in spite of the
wounds, but because of them. Because you
let me touch them. Because you trusted
me with them. Because you let me turn
your pain into praise. Your weakness
into witness. Your history into healing
for others. The world needs what you
carry. The honesty of your struggle. The
purity of your perseverance.
The sacred light that flows from someone
who has suffered and still sings. That
light will touch those who think they
are too far gone. That light will
whisper to the broken. If God can
restore them, he can restore me, too. So
do not hide your scars anymore.
Hold them up like a torch.
Let the world see what grace looks like
on flesh. Let the church see what
resurrection really means. Let the
wounded see that healing is not only
possible, it is beautiful. I know the
season you've walked through has felt
parched. Like your prayers echoed back
with silence, like the soil of your
spirit dried and cracked beneath the
weight of waiting. You've looked around
and seen baroness where you once dreamed
of gardens.
You've hoped through dust storms,
trusted through droughts, and still the
rain did not fall. But I, the Lord your
God, declare to you now, the streams are
beginning to break forth. The drought is
ending. Water is rising from the depths.
And where you saw only desolation, you
shall now see divine provision. I am the
God who makes a way in the wilderness
and streams in the desert. This land
around you, this life that has felt
lifeless. I am speaking to it even now.
I am calling forth water from the Gurat.
I am commanding living springs to rise
in places long forgotten.
I am not limited by what looks dry. I do
not see the desert as hopeless. I see it
as a canvas for miracles.
You asked me for rain, but I am giving
you a river. You look for signs of life,
but I am birthing an oasis from your
obedience, from your endurance, from
your tears.
Every step you took through this arid
place, I saw it. Every time you chose
faith over feeling. Every time you
praised me in the emptiness. Every time
you lifted your eyes when the weight
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