I heard these song lyrics the other day, and they struck a chord:
“Been lookin’ for You in the still and safe
But I feel You most in the wildest place.” (Rebels, Influence Music & Michael Ketterer)
If you know me, you know I’ve always loved wild places — the farther from people, noise, and clearly marked trails, the better. The idea of exploring the wilderness has always drawn me, even in the stories of those who encountered God there: Moses. Elijah. John the Baptist. Jesus.
So when God told me He was taking me to the backside of the wilderness, I expected the uncertainty of going off-trail. What I didn’t expect was the sheer intensity of it: the way losing the trail doesn’t just slow you down, but rearranges your sense of direction, identity, and control.
There is a vast difference between walking a trail and wandering the wilderness.
On a maintained trail, the path is marked, blazed, and relatively predictable. A hiker can research the distance, difficulty, elevation gain, and terrain in advance. You can decide beforehand whether the risk or effort is worth the payoff. There’s usually a clear destination waiting at the end, like a waterfall, a summit, or a scenic overlook.
Wilderness is altogether different.
Often, there is no trail at all. Maps, if they exist, are vague at best. Landmarks shift. Information is scarce. Preparation helps, but it never guarantees safety. Few people can tell you what to expect, and those who can, rarely agree. There is no promised vista, no assured reward, no tidy ending waiting ahead.
In the wilderness, the goal is not achievement.
It is survival.
Even when you arrive prepared, your resources are limited to what you carried in. The pack on your back contains your food, water, shelter, and other essential items for survival. The twist? The more you bring to ensure your safety and comfort, the more weight you have to carry. And the more weight you carry, the harder the trek becomes. Experience teaches you what you can live without. In truth, you need less than you think.
Spiritually speaking, the wilderness is where skill, strength, and strategy eventually run out… and all that remains is dependence on Him.
I remember a recent backpacking trip my husband and I took into the Sawtooth Wilderness in Idaho. After a long drive down a rough, unmaintained road, we reached the trailhead. Before we left the truck, we took inventory of what was in our packs one last time, leaving some things we initially thought important in order to save weight. It dawned on me in that moment that as we locked the truck behind us, we were stepping even farther into the unknown with even fewer resources.
We left behind luxuries, like a heavy camera lens, a better camera body, and even things that felt more necessary, like extra food and spare layers. There simply wasn’t room.
As we set out from the trailhead with nothing to guide us to our intended campsite except the blue pin on my phone’s screen, I had a sense of both anticipation and anxiety.
Did we bring enough?
Too much?
Will the weight break us, or slow the ascent?
This is unfamiliar territory. Will we find our way back?
I had been responsible for planning this route. My chest tightened as we left the powdery dust of the trailhead and felt the rugged natural rocks beneath our feet.
Here we go. There is no turning back now.
My heart races.
Did I read the map correctly?
What happens if the reality of the place is not what I believed it to be?
Sweating now. It’s not the heat or the climb, but the realization that, despite my preparation and the gear on my back meant to ensure safety and comfort, very little about this trek is actually within my control.
It feels familiar.
Much like losing my job – something I didn’t choose and couldn’t control.
Losing my job felt like having the ground disappear beneath my feet. It wasn’t a disruption I planned or prayed for. It dismantled pieces of my identity I hadn’t realized were so anchored to what I did, what I produced, and how I was needed. There was grief in that. Grief over purpose, direction, and the quiet fear of becoming unmoored from who I thought I was in God’s economy. And yet, as disorienting as it has been, I sense this season is not about abandonment, but reassignment. He is calling me into terrain I don’t yet understand, toward an assignment He hasn’t fully revealed. I am walking forward without a map, carrying both sorrow and surrender, trusting that the same God who allowed the path to vanish is still leading, even while the destination remains unclear.
It strikes me, somewhere between the crunch of gravel and the thinning air, that this fear isn’t really about the hike. It’s about surrender. This is where preparation and security end and real trust begins.
This isn’t accidental. He has been leading me here, to the place where certainty and performance come to die, and where identity is stripped to the bone.
I didn’t choose this place. But I chose to follow Him into it.
The moment I gave Him my “yes”.
And in this place, the things I once relied on feel heavier than they used to. The certainty, the comfort, the roles that once defined me….out here, in both the physical wild and the spiritual one, they feel less like an offering and more like excess weight.
It is for this very reason that the wilderness has a way of stripping you down. Every mile reveals what was buried under the layers you thought you needed to survive.
But there’s also a reason why we nature lovers brave the wilderness willingly…
Wonder.
Pure and simple. The weight of the pack is heavy, but when you crest the ridge and see the crystal clear alpine lake framed by jagged rock under a blue cloudless sky, you don’t notice the weight. You don’t remember the things you left behind in the truck. None of it matters here.
The scene before you. The sound of the wind blowing through the pines, the native fish nipping at the water’s surface, the solitude. The quiet. The simplicity of being. That’s what matters.
The trek was hard. But here, in this place…
There is no skill, strength, or strategy left to use. All that remains is dependence on Him. All that’s left to do is commune with Him. This is where identity is found – in dependence, in presence, in knowing Him.
I may be in a wilderness season that was only partially of my own choosing, but I can choose to appreciate what it is building in me. And I can choose to rest in knowing He is with me.
Moses said, “If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.” The Lord replied, “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” Then Moses said to him, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here.” – Exodus 33:13-15 NIV
God led me into the wilderness to unmake and remake me.
But He has not – and will not – let me go.
“Somewhere in me there’s the wonder of a child
And I wonder if I’ll find [her] in the Wild”
I can honestly say I am grateful for the wilderness.
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