The desert wind stung their faces as the last of the sun bled across the horizon. Sand scratched at their sandals with each step, and the heat of the day clung to their skin even as the shadows stretched long and thin across the wilderness.

They were free—finally free.

Even so, fear still pressed at the Israelite’s heels like an unwelcome companion. They could still hear the roar of the Red Sea closing behind them, still see the towering walls of water trembling at their sides, still feel the earth shaking beneath their feet as God tore open a path where none should have existed. Their children had run through the sand laughing. Their elders had whispered prayers with trembling lips. Their voices had risen in a song of relieved victory so loud it echoed across the desert.

But in the wilderness—in this now moment—only days after a divine display that delivered them from captivity, their faith faltered. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs while fear whispered its familiar poison. And somehow, incredibly, they began to remember Egypt with a strange softness, as though chains had been comfort and oppression had been warmth. They spoke of full pots and bread to spare, rewriting the past as though the lash had been kind and slavery generous (Exodus 16:3). With the miracles so close behind them, and the need before them, forgetfulness took full bloom in the space between. The God who split the sea felt suddenly silent, and their trust collapsed under the weight of the now.

Centuries later, the disciples stepped into their own kind of wilderness, and the same pattern surfaced. Not long before their now, the disciples had watched Jesus feed five thousand people with five loaves and two fish. They had stood in the middle of that miracle, handing out bread that never seemed to run out. They even gathered the leftovers—twelve baskets, one resting in the arms of each disciple (Mark 6:30-44).

And not long after, another now moment arrived. A different crowd. Four thousand hungry, weary people scattered across the hillside. And instead of remembering the miracle they had literally participated in, the disciples stared at the need and felt the same old panic rise. “Shall we go and buy two hundred denarii worth of bread and give them something to eat?” (Mark 8:4), they asked—forgetting how near Jesus really was.

And this is what makes the moment so striking. The feeding of the 4,000 didn’t happen years after the 5,000. Yes, it came after, but close enough that the memory should’ve been fresh. They had just lived through one supernatural provision. They had just held the evidence of divine abundance in their own hands. Yet the new problem felt louder than the memory, and the present swallowed what the past had already proven.

Now, as I sit here writing this, I’m not quick to judge the Israelites or the Apostles for their amnesia. You see, I’ve lived my own version of that forgetting many times. Recently, when my wife and I prayed over this website—its purpose, its voice, the people it would reach—there was a moment that was unmistakably an answered prayer. Not a guess. Not a maybe. Not a “Lord, is this You?” kind of moment. It was a calling. A directive. A holy nudge that settled into my chest with the weight of certainty. At a specific time, standing on a specific step in a specific place, I know Papa told me to move forward.

But clarity doesn’t erase the wilderness. I’d never built a website—let alone committed to writing for others in the name of Christ. And once I stepped into the work, the battles rose fast—obstacles, setbacks, unexpected resistance, emotional fatigue I didn’t see coming. More than once, I threw my hands up in frustration and muttered, “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” And more than once, exasperation came out in words I wish I could take back. I lashed out—at my wife, my computer, the air. My wilderness wasn’t hunger, but it stirred the same reaction the Israelites had, the same uncertainty the disciples voiced.

Now, I can look back and see God’s fingerprints across my life—through the joys, through crises, even through the decades of running from Him. But the present? The now? That’s where everything in me shook. Because that’s where forgetting hides. Not in the past where the miracles are easy to recount, not in the future where hope feels safer than action, but here—in the tension of the moment that needs God the most. And part of why the now feels so hard is because it’s fluid. It shifts. It can change with a single word spoken over you or by you. One wrong turn, one misstep, one moment of weakness, and suddenly you’re convinced you’ve fallen out of step with what God was doing, that you’ve somehow derailed His good, acceptable, and perfect will.

Israel forgot. The disciples forgot… and so did I.

The uncertainty of the moment in front of me grew louder than the ever-steady God walking with me through it. The now felt bigger than His faithfulness. The wilderness whispered old lies. It distracted me from remembering who lives inside me. And suddenly the question was no longer whether He can, but whether He will—now, for me, in this moment.

And here’s the irony—we rely on what keeps slipping through our fingers instead of leaning on the One who holds us fast. The now is shifting, changing, unpredictable—at least to us. The unrest we feel isn’t because God is distant, but because the moment itself refuses to stay still. We can’t rely on what moves. But God—the one unchanging presence in a world that shifts beneath our feet—is right here, right now, inviting us to trust Him. He steps into our moment—not shaken by it, not distracted by it—and weaves even our missteps toward good. We can remember His faithfulness and cling to His promises, but it’s in the now—this breath, this fear, this step—where trust becomes real.

Reflection

If you pause long enough, you can probably trace God’s fingerprints across your past—moments when help arrived at the right time, when strength rose from nowhere, when mercy met you in places where you didn’t deserve it. But somehow, those memories fade the fastest when the present tightens around you. The Israelites forgot the Red Sea within days. The disciples forgot multiplied bread within weeks. And we forget our own stories just as quickly.

It’s not that the past wasn’t real. It’s that the now feels louder. Pressure shrinks our memory. Fear narrows our vision until all we can see is the problem in front of us. Even when we’ve lived through God’s provision, even when we’ve held His faithfulness in our own hands, the moment of need can make us feel as though we’ve never known Him at all. We remember the crisis more clearly than the rescue. We remember the pain faster than the provision.

And yet Scripture keeps calling us back to memory. “Remember the works of the Lord.” “Do not forget His benefits.” “Tell them to your children.” Memory is fuel for present faith. Forgetting drains us. Remembering strengthens us.

So, if your confidence slips in the moment, it doesn’t mean your faith is broken. It means you need to remember again. Remember what God has already done. Remember the doors He opened. Remember the nights He carried you. Remember the peace that arrived out of nowhere. Remember the people He sent at just the right time. Remember the things you survived that should have undone you.

The past was never meant to stay behind you. It’s meant to steady you now and lead you forward.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for every moment in my past when You carried me, even when I didn’t see it or didn’t give You credit for it. Thank You for the mercies that met me, the strength that rose in me, and the help that arrived right when I needed it. I forget so easily, but You have never forgotten me. Bring back to my mind the stories I’ve buried, the rescues I’ve overlooked, the faithfulness I’ve rushed past. Let memory become fuel for my trust, not just nostalgia for what You’ve done.

And when the now feels louder than all of it, quiet my fear long enough for me to remember who You’ve always been. Steady me with the truth of Your record. Anchor me in every answered prayer, every opened door, every moment You proved Yourself faithful. And when I face the next step, remind me that the God who carried me then is the same God who walks with me now.

Amen.