Where the Lion Roars

The noise and busyness of the world grow strangely quiet and His voice roars through the wind.

Can you hear it?

Out there, notifications lose their urgency and expectations soften. The constant hum of reacting and responding fades beneath the soft thud of trail runners against packed dirt, the give of mud underfoot, the hush of pine straw shifting along the path. Wind moves through trees. Water rushes somewhere just out of sight. And in the space that silence creates, what once felt faint becomes unmistakable.

Not because God is louder in the wilderness.

But because everything else isn’t.

This series isn’t about hiking for the sake of adventure. It’s about formation. Scripture is full of wilderness, and it’s rarely about scenery. Israel wandered for forty years, not to admire the desert but to unlearn slavery. Elijah collapsed under a broom tree when exhaustion exposed what bravado had concealed. John the Baptist was formed in obscurity before he ever spoke in public. Jesus fasted in solitude before stepping into ministry.

The wilderness in the Bible is where God does His deep work.

When you carry only what fits on your back, you find out quickly what’s essential and what isn’t. When your light is limited to the small beam cast by a headlamp, you learn what trust actually requires. When miles stretch longer than you expected, you discover that change doesn’t usually come in sweeping moments. It comes slowly. Step by step.

The trail has a way of exposing what the house conceals.

Impatience surfaces faster. Fear rises quicker. Pride feels heavier when there’s literal weight on your shoulders. But so does resilience. So does dependence. And so does joy.

I’ve seen it in marriage. Twenty-three years in, you learn that walking together requires adjusting pace, carrying weight for each other, and agreeing on direction even when you can’t see the whole path. I’ve also seen it in motherhood — teaching my children to keep walking when they’re tired, handing over the lead to a teenager and letting him guide the family through blowdowns and steep inclines, or carrying extra water because someone else can’t. I’ve seen it in homeschooling, too — reading Psalms beside cascading water, talking about manna while rationing trail snacks, learning ecosystems by standing inside one.

Out there, faith isn’t theoretical. It’s embodied.

The trail isn’t escape.

It’s amplification.

In the coming weeks, we’ll follow the questions the wilderness has a way of asking. What do we truly need when we can only carry so much? Why does limited light change the way we move? What feels heavier than it should — and what strengthens us without our noticing? How do miles reshape us slowly, and what happens when we’re tempted to turn back before the clearing opens? We’ll step back into the wilderness stories of Scripture — not as distant history, but as living mirrors, reflecting our own impatience, fear, dependence, and joy.

And yes, I’ll also share some of what we’ve learned on trail and in camp — small lessons, practical tips, and a few gear suggestions gathered from raising four kids in the woods of our own backyard and out deep into the backcountry of America’s wild spaces. While those details do matter, they aren’t the main point.

The heart of the story is that ours is Immanuel. Jehovah Shammah. El Roi. Abba.

The God who led Israel by fire still guides step by step.

The God who fed Elijah still strengthens the weary.

Judah’s Lion still roars.

And sometimes the clearest place to hear Him is where the world has finally grown quiet.

Let’s walk.

The wilderness isn’t silent.

It moves.

Wind presses through pine needles. Grass bends along the ridgeline. The air feels delightful and alive — not lonesome nor empty.

In Scripture, when the Lord’s voice is described as a roar, it isn’t chaos.

It’s authority. And it carries.

C.S. Lewis gave us language for that holy tension in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe…

“Safe? … Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

The wilderness reminds us of that.

God isn’t tame.

He isn’t managed or reduced to what feels comfortable.

But He is good.

Steady. And faithful.

When the noise falls away and the wind rises, you remember who rules it.