Each One Has a Wilderness of Its Own

Paul Alexander Wolf

Introduction

Today, I invite you to pause and reflect on wilderness – those unseen spaces within us and around us where grief and survival intertwine, and where the faint whisper of hope often lingers just beneath the surface.

These moments can feel hollow and overwhelming. Yet, even amid silence and darkness, there is a subtle presence – tiny acts of grace that quietly sustain us, often when we least expect.

As we explore this reflection, I softly invite you to consider your own wilderness – those silent places of challenge, loss, or hope you carry within.

And in doing so, may you find a gentle reminder: even amid the darkest shadows, the Spirit persists -shaping, gathering, and offering just enough for us to carry on, to hope, and to rediscover wholeness.

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Wilderness isn’t punishment.
It’s part of our human rhythm- unfolding quietly, often unexpectedly.
Sometimes – even in silence – provision finds us.
But not always.

Each of us bears our own wilderness –
a space of grief, raw survival, calling, and silence.
Some discover purpose there. Others simply endure.
And a brave few awaken to provisions they never imagined.

I’ve walked with many through these quiet edges -clinical, emotional, spiritual –
and I recognize myself in those moments too.
These days, I don’t use that word lightly.
Perhaps I never should have.

Because wilderness isn’t just a poetic space for transformation.
It’s the ground of grief. Of survival. Of calling. Of silence.
And for some, it’s no metaphor at all.

—

Let me tell you about those who know it intimately.

I go back far in time -into biblical scriptures:

Moses knew it – a man of power, suddenly stripped of titles,
tending sheep on the far side of Midian.
He stuttered when God spoke, argued with the Divine, hesitated –
yet was called through that wilderness.

David knew it too – hunted like an animal by Saul,
hiding in caves, betrayed by friends,
his heart breaking open in the Psalms.

Jonathan, Saul’s son, walked a quieter path –
a wilderness of torn loyalty:
between father and friend,
between monarchy and mercy.
A silent, faithful struggle.

Then there’s Jesus – guided by the Spirit, not by impulse or ambition –
driven into the desert for forty days: hungry, tempted, alone.
Before the miracles, before healing, before teaching –
there was wilderness.
It’s woven into the rhythm of redemption, isn’t it?

But not everyone finds purpose in it.
Some simply survive.

—-

Think of the child in Rafah who no longer cries when the shelling starts –
because crying didn’t help last time.

Or the family in Ukrainian shelters, enduring displacement –
quietly resilient in the face of unending conflict.

Or the communities in the Pacific Islands –
watching the sea erase ancestral lands,
memories dissolving into salt.

The mother in Port Sudan searching for clean water –
while the world scrolls on.

The father in Syria planting flowers amid rubble -.
the only thing he can still control.

And the men and women in our own neighborhoods –
carrying heavy diagnoses, fragile relationships –
doing their best to make it through another day.

In Latin America, workers face the wilderness of shifting economies –
uncertain, unrelenting.

In Asia, activists fight climate displacement –
seeking not just daily bread but also a voice for change.

For them, wilderness isn’t a detour.
It’s the whole journey.

—-

And yet – even there – some awaken to a Spirit of Provision.
Not always as they expected.
Rarely as they hoped.

As it’s written:

Then the Lord said to Moses,
“I will rain down bread from heaven for you…
Each day the people are to gather enough for that day.”
— Exodus 16:4

And my God will supply all your needs
according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.
— Philippians 4:19

—-

This isn’t about certainty –
even if we long for it.
It’s about daily manna –
in Rafah, in economic upheaval, at climate’s front lines.

Quiet grace –
just enough to stand.
Just enough to walk.
Just enough to hope.

Sometimes, this grace appears as a quiet companion –
a hand resting gently on your shoulder;
or as an unexpected gift –
a moment of relief –
a shift within –
a soft opening before the storm passes –
or an encounter that rekindles the faintest ember of spirit
that nearly flickered out.

That’s manna too.

—

Even great souls like Albert Schweitzer knew wilderness.
We romanticize him –
the organist, philosopher, physician
who built a hospital in Lambaréné, Gabon.
But his story wasn’t tidy heroism.

His wilderness was tension –
between Western ideals and African realities,
between recognition and obscurity,
between action and reflection.

And maybe you and I each carry our own Lambaréné –
a sacred space of service, contradiction, fragile purpose. ( See afterword below)
That, too, is manna.

Mine, these days, is less about arriving –
and maybe that’s okay –
and more about standing.

Shoulder to shoulder with those barely holding on.
Still wearing my 🏥 badge.
Still seeking clarity – in consultations, at home, in prayer.
Still believing that small, daily acts of faithfulness matter-
whatever their name.

—

In a changing world, this means:
navigating digital divides,
bridging global inequalities,
responding to the Spirit’s call
to link personal struggle with collective hope.

Let’s hold this gentle awareness:
not everyone welcomes wilderness.
Some avoid it altogether,
some numb themselves,
some commodify suffering,
and others live patterns we may never fully understand.

—-

What if this wilderness isn’t punishment,
but a quiet invitation-
a space where the Spirit is always moving?

May we trust that in each story- our own and others’ -that Spirit works –
gathering us, shaping us,
offering just enough to carry on and to hope.

And perhaps, in that trust, peace can quietly settle –
even amidst the wilderness where some may feel entirely lost –
trusting that, in time, small acts of grace and presence continue to emerge –
however faintly at times.

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Afterword: On Lambaréné and the Wilderness Within

In referencing Albert Schweitzer and his hospital in Lambaréné, I spoke of a sacred wilderness – a place of tension, service, and fragile faithfulness. For Schweitzer, that African outpost was not only a site of medical mission, but a crucible where ideals met contradiction, and where the cost of conscience was measured daily.

Not everyone carries such a wilderness.
Some choose silence or survival.
Others, sadly, choose ruin – doing harm without remorse, without shadow.
This too is part of the world we walk in.

But for those who do bear a Lambaréné of the soul – a space where contradiction, compassion, and calling collide-it is no romantic journey. It is slow, uncertain work. And it matters.

To learn more about Schweitzer’s story and the enduring legacy of Lambaréné, visit:
✅ Albert Schweitzer in Lambaréné – UNESCO Archives

https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/peace/1952/schweitzer/biographical

May we honour the wildernesses that forge integrity –
and not mistake every struggle for virtue.