by Denise Beck
There’s something instinctive in women — a sacred reflex to protect what’s vulnerable and nurture what’s valuable. We step in, kneel down, and hold fast when something (or someone) needs us. We carry what matters. And we carry it like it matters.
It starts young. Little girls wrapping their arms around broken-winged birds. Teenagers fiercely loyal to younger siblings (maybe not at every moment — but when it counts). Grown women who go without sleep, without food, without help — just to keep others whole.
We are wired to endure hard things when what we care for is precious. We posture ourselves to be strong — not for ourselves, but for someone else. That’s what women do.
When I was living abroad for the sake of the gospel, I think the image I had of myself was something like this:
A woman walking through the desert, clutching a weathered, ancient box. Inside it — a fragile treasure. And if I could just be strong enough, wise enough, prepared enough, I could deliver it to those who were waiting.
The gospel was the treasure. And I saw myself as its protector. Me = strong. The message = fragile.
And every ounce of strength I needed — emotional, spiritual, physical — was so that I could protect it. Ensure it was delivered just right. Or it might not survive.
It sounds noble. But now, looking back? It’s laughable.
The truth is, the gospel was never fragile. It has survived empires, heresies, betrayals, martyrdom, apathy, and abuse. It has outlived kings and colonizers. It has thrived underground in prison camps and in whispered house church prayers.
The gospel didn’t need strength to survive. But I did. Because the wilderness was real. And it wasn’t a place I wanted to be.
But this life — this calling — seems to draw us there. The isolation. The daily cross-cultural negotiations. The heartbreak of loss. The loneliness of being misunderstood. The exhaustion of pouring out, with little chance to refill.
I didn’t need strength because the gospel was fragile. I needed strength because I was fragile. And here’s the grace: God gives strength in the wilderness not because His message is at risk — but because you matter to Him.
For many of us it’s not that we don’t welcome and want his care, it’s that we don’t want it there . . . in the wilderness.
We assume the wilderness is a place to avoid. A punishment for failure. A lonely place. A place where weakness wins.
But with God? It’s not punishment — it’s preparation. A training ground for what’s ahead. A place where distraction dies long enough for us to hear His voice.
It’s not empty — He is there. And the sweetness of Him filling the empty places becomes a kind of treasure we wouldn’t trade — even if we wouldn’t choose to relive it.
It’s not where you’re broken — it’s where He builds. He reminds you who He created you to be. And in His hands, your weakness becomes your strength.
The wilderness is where we learn to trust Him. Where we begin to see ourselves as He sees us. Where we find strength — real strength — for the journey ahead.
And if we can be brave enough to realize we are the fragile box that needs protecting — if we can dare to embrace the wilderness and receive His care for us there — we just might find ourselves . . . surprised by the wilderness.
This year at the Equip Online Conference, we’re exploring Wilderness: Strength, Wisdom, and Provision for the Journey based on Exodus 13:17–22.
I’ll be speaking on Strength, drawing from the life of Moses and my years in South Sudan. Sarah Yardley will share on Wisdom from the wilderness. Jenny Erlingsson will speak on God’s Provision in the dry and difficult places.
I don’t know what kind of wilderness you’re in right now. Maybe it’s the ache of unmet expectations. Maybe it’s team conflict, visa drama, a medical diagnosis, or a dry spiritual season. Maybe it’s just the accumulation of a hundred quiet sacrifices (death by papercuts as a dear friend says) . . . and you’re wondering if it all matters.
Whether you’re in a literal desert or a metaphorical one, God has good things for you there. Let yourself be surprised by the wilderness. Join us at Equip 2025.
Bring your wilderness. Bring your empty hands. And be surprised by what’s there.
