Bethel in the Unknown

The wilderness isn’t always a barren landscape.

Sometimes, it’s the quiet ache of waiting for something that hasn’t come—
a future that feels paused without explanation.

This is where I find myself.

I’ve known the truth that God is with me.
I could recite it, teach it, speak it over others.
But feeling that truth deep in my bones?
That’s been harder lately.

Not because He’s absent—
but because I’m walking a stretch of road where I can’t quite see what’s ahead.

Recently, I’ve been spending time in Genesis 28, sitting with Jacob’s story—his fear, his flight, and the unexpected place where God met him.

He wasn’t looking for a holy moment.
He was just trying to make it through the night.

On the run from his brother, caught between decisions, Jacob stopped to rest with a stone for a pillow.
And it was there—not in a temple, not in a sanctuary—that heaven broke through.

In his dream, he saw a ladder reaching from earth to heaven, with angels ascending and descending.
And at the top stood the Lord, who reaffirmed the promise spoken over his family for generations:
“I am with you. I will not leave you.”

Jacob woke up stunned.

“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.”
— Genesis 28:16

It wasn’t the beauty of the land that made Bethel holy.
It was the presence of God in an unexpected place.

Jacob’s response wasn’t to make a plan.
It was to make an altar.

He marked the place with oil and gave it a name—Bethel, meaning House of God.

A place of worship born not out of clarity, but out of encounter.
A place where fear met faith, and running turned into reverence.

Bethel became a turning point.
Not because Jacob’s circumstances had changed—
but because he had seen God in the midst of them.

A Quiet Confession

But here’s what I need to be honest about:
I haven’t had a moment like Jacob’s.

Not recently, anyway.

No vivid dreams.
No ladder stretching to heaven.
No clear voice in the dark.

Sometimes, it feels like the silence is louder than any promise.
Sometimes, I wonder if I missed it—or if it’s just not my time yet.

But maybe that is part of the worship too.

To keep showing up, even when the altar feels empty.
To trust, even when the ladder remains unseen.
To say “The Lord is in this place”—not because I feel it fully, but because I believe He’s always been here.

And maybe that’s what this season is for me.

I don’t know what comes next.
Some doors I hoped would open have gently closed.
Other dreams feel tender and not fully formed.

I’m standing at a crossroads with no clear map forward—
just the quiet invitation to trust.

But I’m learning:
I don’t need all the answers to begin building an altar.
I don’t have to see the full picture to worship the One who holds it.

Worshiping While You Wait: A Story from My Own Wilderness

Worship in the wilderness isn’t always big or loud.
Sometimes, it looks like tears behind closed doors.
Sometimes, it looks like choosing gratitude before the breakthrough.

After I got married in 2015, my husband and I prayed patiently to grow our family. But month after month, the answer was, “Not yet.”

I struggled with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome), and with every negative pregnancy test, hormonal shift, and wave of disappointment, I had to learn what it meant to worship in the waiting.

To choose joy even when it felt out of reach.
To be happy for friends receiving their blessings while I was still waiting for mine.

And in that wilderness, God saw me. I know He did—because He brought me Whittney.

At the time, Whittney and I weren’t especially close. But something shifted when we discovered we were walking through the same season with the same struggles.

That moment of shared pain became sacred ground.
God wove our stories—and our hearts—together.

Whittney became my close friend and sister in Christ.
We leaned on each other, prayed for each other, cried with each other, and reminded each other of God’s faithfulness—even when we couldn’t see it.

And in His kindness, God brought us both to the well.

In 2018, within a month of each other, Whittney and I found out we were going to be mothers.
Our season of silence broke into songs of joy.

But the worship began long before the breakthrough.

God didn’t just give us children—He gave us each other.
He wove our families together.
Today, we still do life side by side.
And our sons? They’re best friends.

We’ve walked through hard seasons and celebrated beautiful blessings.
And through it all, we’ve continued to worship—because we’ve seen firsthand:
God is good. God is near. And God is faithful.

What Does Worship Look Like in the Wilderness?

Worship in this season doesn’t always look like lifted hands or loud praise.

Sometimes, it looks like whispered prayers when I don’t have the words.
Sometimes, it looks like silence—just showing up and sitting with God, even when I don’t feel Him.

It looks like journaling the questions instead of the answers.
Like playing worship music while folding laundry because I don’t know what else to do.
Like choosing trust over control—again and again.

Worship right now looks less like shouting and more like surrender.
Less like certainty and more like stillness.

It looks like saying:
“You are good… even here.”
“You are faithful… even now.”
“I don’t know the way, but I know You’re in it.”

It looks like returning to the altar—
not because everything is resolved,
but because I want to mark this moment with Him.

Maybe Bethel Isn’t the Place Where Everything Ties Up with a Bow

Maybe it’s the place where we wake up to the truth that God has been with us all along.

And if that’s true…

Then even here,
even now—
I can worship.