The Space Between Wilderness + Promise

There’s a moment in the book of Book of Joshua that has always stayed with me.

After years of wandering, after uncertainty and waiting and wondering if the promise would ever come to pass, the Israelites finally crossed the Jordan River into the land God had been preparing for them. And before they moved on, before they built or planted or settled, God told them to stop.

He commanded them to go back into the middle of the riverbed—right where He had just made a way—and gather twelve stones— one for each tribe, He did not command them to do this because they needed building materials—but because they needed to remember.

This week, that story became more than something we read.

As part of our school day, we were walking through that passage together—talking about what it must have felt like to step into a flooding river and trust that God would make a way. We talked about obedience before understanding, about the priests carrying the ark, about the water stopping not gradually, but completely.

Then, we walked down to the creek and the boys set out to recreate it—twelve stones, stacked one on top of another, just as a memorial. It wasn’t perfect. The rocks didn’t balance easily, and it took patience to keep them from toppling over. But that was part of it too. They were building something intentionally, piece by piece, as a way of remembering, in this case, the story of the Israelites.

It was a hands-on lesson— but it felt like more than that—because as I watched them carefully choosing each stone, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being invited into the same practice. An invitation to remember.

If I’m being honest, this season we’re in feels far less like standing on the edge of the Promised Land and much more like wandering in the wilderness.

We’ve said yes to something that doesn’t come with a clear map. We’ve stepped into a calling that requires more trust than clarity. We’ve let go of what was known and stable in exchange for something that is still unfolding, still being built—literally and figuratively.

And while I believe deeply that God has led me here, there are moments when the questions creep in. Did I hear Him right? Is the dream of REC just out of reach? Am I capable of bearing the burden of responsibility— even when it is a bit heavier than I thought?

It’s in those moments that I realize how quickly I can forget how He has already provided— the doors He has already opened— and the prayers He has already answered.

And maybe that’s why the stones mattered so much.

Because the same people who walked through the Red Sea on dry ground—the same people who were fed daily in the desert— the same people who were led by a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night—those same people still struggled to trust.

Not because God was unfaithful—but because they were forgetful.

And if I’m being honest, I see myself in that story more than I’d like to admit.

Yet even in their wandering, even in their doubt, even in their moments of outright disobedience, God did not abandon them. His faithfulness was never dependent on their perfection. He remained steady when they were not. He kept His promises even when they wavered.

That same God has not changed. The God who parted the Jordan is the same God who is guiding each step we are taking now. The God who provided in the wilderness is the same God who will provide in this season of uncertainty. The God who brought His people into the Promised Land is the same God who is already ahead of us, preparing what we cannot yet see.

That doesn’t mean this path feels easy. There is still tension in the unknown and still a refining that comes with choosing to trust when the outcome isn’t visible.

But there is also a quiet confidence beginning to take root—not because I have all the answers—but because I know the One who does.

So maybe this season—this in-between space of wilderness and promise—isn’t something to rush through or wish away.

Maybe it’s a place to build our own stones of remembrance— to pause and mark the ways God has been faithful. Because one day, we will look back on this season— I don’t want to just remember the uncertainty—I want to remember the faithfulness.

I want to remember that even when my faith wavered, His faithfulness never did.

And I want my boys to see it too—not just in the stories we read, but in the life we lived. Stone by stone—step by step.

With grace and grit—

Kehla