It’s been blazing hot here in the Midwest lately, hot enough to make you question every life choice that led to being outside at noon in June. But, the reality is we’re not even into the dog days of summer yet, and I'm already complaining about the heat.
I’ve been trying to squeeze in long walks to prepare my body for some hiking and climbing I’ve got coming up on my Super Exciting International Trip (SEIT for short). The trails around my little apartment are sun-drenched with very little shade, so by the time I finish a walk, I feel like a rotisserie chicken that forgot to get turned.
Yesterday, I was embarking on my walk, and I planned to leave our Husky, Zeus, behind. He's got a thick coat better suited for snowbanks than scorched sidewalks, but every time I head for the door, he begs to go. And I do mean begs. He very good at whining, pawing, and staring at me like I’ve betrayed him personally if I don’t bring him along.
So, I gave in and I took him with me. True to form, he was thrilled, until about a mile in. That’s when the heat got to him. He stopped to sniff the grass, and I figured, good, he needs a breather anyway. Except this wasn’t a breather. This was a plan.
Nestled in that grass was a mud puddle beyond my field of vision.
Before I could stop him, my white-and-black Husky was full-on rolling in it like a pig at a spa. By the time we headed home, I didn’t have a dog anymore. I had a squishy, dripping mudball on a leash. But he was thrilled. Proud, even, because he got to be with me on my daily walk.
But, we weren't finished. As we neared home, we faced one last obstacle: the hill. It’s steep, there’s no shade, and it hits right at the end of the walk, when the sun is merciless and the exhaustion sets in. Zeus, now a steaming heap of damp fluff and grime, started lagging behind.
So I talked to him.
“Come on, buddy. You’re a good boy. You can do it. Who is a brave Husky? Zeus is!”
And somehow, with just those words, he found a second wind. His trot picked up and his tail lifted. Encouragement got him up the hill, even though all he wanted was to roll around in another mud pit.
I’ve thought about that moment (after Zeus endured his bath after post-walk, which he loudly protested). Sometimes the climb feels brutal. The path is scorching, we’re carrying more than we expected, and we feel like we’ve turned into something unrecognizable along the way. Maybe we even rolled around in a little mud, just trying to cool off or cope. But what gets us through isn’t finding shade or waiting for perfect conditions. It’s simply being reminded: You’re not alone. You can do this. You're doing great.
Under the Broom Tree
He collapsed under a broom tree and begged God to take his life.
That’s where we find Elijah. Not standing boldly on a mountaintop calling down fire, but lying in the dirt, exhausted, frightened, and done. This wasn’t a dramatic outburst. This was the cry of a man who had reached his absolute limit.
When we read in 1 Kings 19 that Elijah asked God to take his life, it’s easy to assume he was being overly dramatic. But let’s remember, Jezebel the queen, had just vowed to make sure Elijah was dead by the next day. We can be assured she wasn’t planning a swift or merciful death. This was going to be brutal. Elijah had every reason to be terrified.
What had Jezebel so enraged? Just before this moment, Elijah had stood alone on Mount Carmel, surrounded by 450 prophets of Baal and 400 prophets of Asherah, all backed by the royal court. He had issued a challenge: whichever god answered by fire would be recognized as the true God. The prophets of Baal cried out all day with no result. But when Elijah prayed, God responded with fire from heaven, consuming the soaked sacrifice, the altar, even the water in the trench. The people fell on their faces, declaring, “The Lord—He is God!” Elijah then ordered the false prophets to be seized and put to death. It was a total spiritual victory, but a personal disaster for Jezebel. She saw her power, her gods, and her pride publicly shattered.
It’s fascinating to consider Jezebel’s reaction in that moment. She had just witnessed, through reports and eyewitnesses, the power of the living God. Fire from heaven. A prophet standing unshaken. This was a crossroads: she could have turned in awe and belief, or she could double down on her rage. She chose the latter. She didn't repent. She retaliated.
And so Elijah ran. He ran into the wilderness until he physically collapsed. He curled up under a desert bush, a broom tree, and fell asleep. Can you imagine the kind of weariness that overtakes a person who has been running for their life? The kind that doesn’t just press on your body, but your soul? That’s where Elijah was.
But God met him there, not with judgment or disappointment, but with tenderness. He sent an angel (not once, but twice) to bring him food and water and let him rest. No lectures. Just compassion. Just care.
When Elijah finally found himself in the quiet of a cave, God came to him again. But this time, not through wind, not through fire, not through an earthquake. All those loud, dramatic signs passed by, though, but Elijah didn’t even flinch. Then came a gentle whisper. And that’s when Elijah covered his face. Not in fear, but in reverence, because he knew exactly who was speaking to him.
It’s amazing, isn’t it? The same Elijah who stood with fearless faith on Mount Carmel is now trembling in a cave. One moment, courage. The next, fear. Faith doesn’t always march in a straight line. Sometimes it stumbles. Sometimes it collapses. And yet, God remains faithful.
God asked, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” Not because He didn’t know, but because He was drawing Elijah into conversation. Drawing him out of despair. Elijah answered with the full weight of his discouragement, and God listened. And then, without fanfare, God responded to every fear. He assured Elijah that the wicked house of Ahab would fall. He reminded him he was not alone. There were still 7,000 in Israel who had not bowed to Baal.
Elijah’s fears, complains, and exhaustion were all answered with truth, tenderness, and reassurance.
That’s the kind of God we serve. One who sees us when we collapse in the dirt. One who feeds us when we’re too weak to move. One who speaks in a whisper when the world feels deafening. One who gently reminds us: You’re not alone. You’re not forgotten. You’re not finished.
We need that reminder often. Encouragement isn’t a luxury, it’s part of survival. And how beautiful is it that we serve a God who never tires of whispering it again and again: You can do this. I’m with you. You’re doing great.
One Step at a Time
I’ve never laid under a broom tree and begged God to take my life, but I have had seasons where I didn’t want to wake up to the pain anymore.
After my divorce, there were mornings I would lie in bed and dread the day ahead. Not because I didn’t love my kids. You bet I did. They were the reason I got up, the reason I kept going. But the weight of it all felt unbearable. It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was the slow, steady ache of a life that had unraveled. I was exhausted, not just emotionally, but deep in my soul. There comes a point in suffering where you no longer know how to keep lifting your head. You’re not trying to be dramatic, you’re just trying to survive.
Looking back, I know this much for certain: God never left me.
He met me there. Over and over again. In the quiet moments. In the tears. In the middle-of-the-night conversations I wasn’t sure anyone heard. He didn’t drive me forward with guilt or shame. He didn’t lecture me for my grief or tell me to get over it. Instead, He encouraged me, sometimes with just enough hope for one more step. One more breath. One more day.
Like Elijah, I was met with compassion, not condemnation.
Even on the days I stayed in bed. Even when I wallowed or doubted or felt completely faithless, God stayed faithful. He gently reminded me to keep going. One foot in front of the other. Eyes on Him.
And the more I followed, imperfectly, painfully, the more He strengthened me.
Elijah’s story didn’t end under the broom tree. It wasn’t the final word over his life, and it’s not the final word over mine (or yours). His journey continued. He got up, he heard the whisper, and he walked into the next assignment God had for him. Everything God had promised him came to pass. Every word. The house of Ahab fell. Jezebel's reign ended. Victory came, just as God said it would.
That’s the kind of God we serve. One who doesn’t just whisper encouragement, He keeps His word. Even when we’re faithless, He is faithful. Even when we question, He remains steady. Even when we fall short, He still brings His promises to life.
Elijah’s moment of fear didn’t disqualify him, it just revealed his humanity. And God met him there, not to shame him, but to remind him: You are not done. My promises still stand. Victory is still coming.
The same is true for us.
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