Before God uses you publicly, He refines you privately—and the wilderness is where that holy refinement takes place. 

Wilderness seasons are among the hardest places walk through with Jesus, but they are necessary. They don't just help train us in building up the Kingdom of God, they prepare us for the inevitable suffering we will face during our time on Earth. In these seasons, God lovingly strips away our comforts, unmasks our idols, and reveals the true depth of our dependence—or lack thereof—on Him.

Though it may feel like abandonment, the wilderness is not rejection. It is an invitation.
Jesus is always teaching—but in the wilderness, His training becomes intense. It is where He prepares us for deeper callings and greater Kingdom responsibility. He doesn’t just comfort us there—He equips us. He refines our character, sharpens our discernment, and strengthens our obedience, so that when the time comes, we are ready to carry what He entrusts to us.

An invitation into intimacy.
An invitation into clarity.
An invitation into surrender.

The Lord invited me into the wilderness shortly after I was baptized and confirmed on March 30th, 2024. It took me a few months to accept the invitation—and that’s okay. The Lord is patient. He didn’t rush me. He waited and gently beckoned me deeper. When I finally said yes, I stepped into the quiet, and wow. The unraveling began. Spiritually, I was being emptied. Everything familiar began to fall away. It felt as though the Lord had drawn me into a deep, hidden place and closed the door behind me—and He had. He was calling me into the wilderness.

Then, I stepped into a wilderness within the wilderness as Lent began. The Church invites us in that season to fast, pray, and prepare with joyful expectation—but for me, it became an even deeper stripping, a sacred fast that mirrored Christ’s own 40 days in the desert. And from there, the refining continued.

This year, I participated in The Great Fast—a traditional Lenten fast of eating just one meal a day, along with abstaining from various other comforts. It wasn’t easy. As a functional medicine practitioner trained in women’s health and hormone optimization, I initially resisted. Fasting like that seemed to contradict everything I believed about honoring the body and caring for my cycle. But the Holy Spirit was clear: “Even from food. Yes, even that.”

And then He showed me why.

He revealed to me that—even though I eat, move, and live in a very healthy, intentional way—I had unknowingly placed food and lifestyle medicine on a pedestal. It had become a golden calf. I was clinging to it for control, security, and even identity. My healthy routines had turned into quiet idols. Talk about a humbling conversation with God!

So I said yes.
Yes to one meal a day for 40 days.
Yes to fasting from comfort and control.
Yes to walking through the desert with Jesus.

And in that yes, I began to experience a new kind of intimacy with Christ. I offered up every hunger pang, every headache, every moment of discomfort—not just as sacrifice, but as redemptive suffering. I gave it to Him to be transformed. I offered it for others: for my husband, my children, my patients, my church, the lost, the hungry, the lonely, the lukewarm, the unseen. Each day, I took my own weakness and laid it on the altar, asking the Lord to use it for someone else’s healing. To use my suffering as a wrap of protection and comfort around someone else. And to even take on their suffering for a time to give them some relief. 

Lent isn’t only about prayer and fasting—it is also about almsgiving. The Church invites us to remember that when we take something away from ourselves, we are called to give what we’ve withheld to someone else. Fasting creates margin—not just physically, but spiritually and financially. And that margin is meant to be poured out in love. During my Lenten fast, I didn’t want the hunger to end with me—I wanted it to lift someone else. Whether through acts of service, financial giving, words of encouragement, or unseen intercession, I began to look outward with every act of personal denial. That’s the power of Lent: it teaches us to lay ourselves down for others, not just as a private spiritual exercise, but as a living sacrifice that builds up the Body of Christ.

The Great Fast was hard. Especially in the beginning.  

My head was so noisy. My body was weak. At times, I felt like I would pass out. I had mini meltdowns almost daily at first. When the hunger grew overwhelming, I would go on prayer walks—crying out to the Lord to help me. And little by little, the noise quieted. My spirit grew louder than my stomach. My cravings gave way to communion.

Jesus became my sustenance. My strength. My portion.

To truly enter into the desert with Him, I tried to model my daily life after His. I ate simply with my main meal being sardines, hummus, broth, and sourdough bread. I moved slowly, especially at first until I started to draw physical strength that was not my own for workouts. I prayed without ceasing.

But here’s the thing: I was still a wife. A mom. A practitioner. A farmer. A friend. I was in the wilderness with Jesus while still living my everyday life. Driving kids to school. Meeting with patients. Caring for the farm animals. Waking the gardens up for spring. Making fresh meals for the family. It was sacred and it was messy—and that’s what made it so real.

As a newbie Catholic, I am so grateful for the gift of liturgical seasons like Advent and Lent in the Catholic Church. They are gentle, holy rhythms that call the entire Body of Christ into shared seasons of wilderness and waiting—not alone, but together. They give us structure for our surrender. And they help us remember that we’re not meant to rush through the hard places. We are meant to enter them—to walk through them with Christ, not around Him.

“Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil… and after fasting forty days and forty nights, He was hungry.” (Matthew 4:1–2, RSV-CE)

Even Jesus entered the wilderness. Even Jesus fasted. Even Jesus suffered hunger and fatigue and silence before His public ministry began. If the Son of God needed to pass through the desert to be strengthened for the mission ahead, then how much more do we?

The wilderness teaches us to rely.
To release.
To repent.
To return.

It reveals what’s really inside of us—and more importantly, who God really is. The wilderness will test you. But it will also refine you. It will bring you face to face with your fears, your idols, your wounds. But it will also bring you face to face with your Savior.

But here’s something we must understand as followers of Christ:
You cannot live a full-time Christian life without a wilderness season of preparation.

The wilderness is not optional for those who are called. It is essential.
It is where God tests, refines, and reshapes His vessels for Kingdom work.
It is where the noise of the world is stripped away, and the voice of God is made unmistakably clear.

We see this pattern throughout Scripture:

• Jesus was baptized and immediately led into the wilderness for 40 days (Matthew 4). Only after that did His public ministry begin—clothed in power.

• Moses spent 40 years in the desert of Midian before being called to confront Pharaoh and deliver a nation (Exodus 3).

• The Israelites wandered for 40 years, learning obedience and dependence before entering the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 8).

• John the Baptist lived in the wilderness before stepping into his calling as the forerunner to the Messiah (Luke 3:2).

• Elijah fled into the wilderness to meet God in silence—then rose up in prophetic fire to confront a nation and call down revival (1 Kings 19).

This is the rhythm of Heaven:
Wilderness → Surrender → Empowerment → Commission → Revival.

And this pattern doesn’t just happen once.
The Lord continues to refine our calling through wilderness seasons throughout our lives.
Each time He calls us deeper, He also draws us further into the desert—for purification, for preparation, for greater dependence.

So if you are hungry for revival, for purpose, for clarity, for calling—expect the wilderness first.
If you want to walk in Kingdom authority, expect to be led into quiet obscurity.
If you long to lead, expect to be broken.

The wilderness is not a detour—it is the path.
It is the space between what was and what will be.
It is holy ground. And it is where the anointing is forged.

Jesus is not asking you to survive your wilderness.
He is inviting you to meet Him in it—and come out radiant, refined, and ready to walk in His power.

So say yes to the wilderness.
Because what follows is always greater: revival, ministry, and glory—on the other side of surrender.

Baptism is one of the most significant moments in a Christian’s life, and for me, that moment came on March 30th, 2024, when I was baptized into the Catholic Church. The experience was deeply transformative—not only in the physical sense of being washed clean by water but in the spiritual sense of being united with Christ in His death and resurrection. For decades, I thought I was already living the full-time Christian life. I believed in Jesus. I loved Him. I prayed, worshipped, and sought to live morally. I even thought I was walking in step with God. And while all of that was sincere, I now see clearly that I was missing something massive.

While the night of my baptism and confirmation was a profound encounter with the outward signs of God’s grace, what followed was something deeply personal—an undeniable encounter with the Holy Spirit that transformed the way I live, pray, perceive my faith, discern truth, walk in obedience, intercede for others, and experience His peace, joy, and boldness. For decades, I had believed the Holy Spirit was guiding me—and while that was true, I was unaware of the fullness I was missing.