When Wandering Invites Remembrance:
How Looking Back Helps Us Move Forward
by Peggy Bodde
Have you ever noticed that when our heart wanders, the rest of us follows? Doubt and worry take up the spaces where remembrance and gratitude used to live.
Zakhar is the Hebrew word for “remember.” Zakhar holds this idea of remembrance as a forward-moving practice. Looking back helps us move forward. We see the Israelites struggle to zakhar as they groan and grumble their way away from Egypt. Every time they’re faced with a threat or an obstacle, their hearts wander. If only they would look back at God’s faithfulness, that act of zakhar would give them the courage to move forward.
I can see the Israelites’ shortcomings of faith so clearly, because they sit right next to mine—recent seasons when God’s faithfulness stood, all-encompassing, despite my forgetful heart.
In the mountains of Colorado, winters come early and visit much longer than they should. My first winter brought record snows that buried all the pumpkins—and our five-foot fence. Slowly mending after ankle surgery, I spent months trapped inside what felt like a snow globe. The world quickly disappeared into one vast white landscape.
My journal from that time exposes the tension of being in the desert, that place of “in-between.” I can’t go backward, I can’t fast forward, and the unknown overwhelms me. Journaling chronicles God’s faithfulness throughout my life. I have more than one hundred journals, and when I turn the pages back I see God showing up again and again—making provision in every way from the most practical to the most spiritual.
But there are times when I’ve chosen to strive and strain instead of flipping those pages back and resting in all the ways God has shown up. Instead I press the pen hard into the pages and keep frantically turning them forward. This was the case when we moved. My husband and I met later in life, and he made it clear from the beginning that his goal was to move closer to his parents. After a lot of prayer, we made our fourth move which landed us in the same town as my parents-in-law.
Journaling chronicles God’s faithfulness throughout my life.
God forged our move to this tiny rural town in late summer. Like the Israelites reluctantly rescued from Egypt, I started grumbling not long afterward. I regretted moving to what seemed like an arctic tundra. The harsh winter and isolation mixed to form a hard lump that I didn’t want to swallow.
I questioned the move. We were dealing with new careers, family dynamics, and starting over—for the fourth time. I questioned the decisions that had brought us to this place. Then I questioned whether God even saw or heard me anymore. All of that on top of ankle surgery made me question whether my body would ever heal.
If only I had paused. If only I had looked back in my journal and touched the words on the pages. I would have discovered a proven record that I’m not alone—a tangible reminder of who God is. Instead, I was operating from a place of scarcity. Everything felt difficult and overwhelming, and the more I embraced it, the harder it was for me to turn around and see God.
Then came the first crisp morning I went snowshoeing after recovery. No cast, no boot, no crutches. Just my own two legs, one on the wobbly side. The calendar said spring, but the ground was still sleeping under the snow. I’ve always found my sanctuary in the wild places outside, and I was determined to break tracks.
I looked up at the watchful peaks surrounding me on all sides, towering and immovable. And I immediately thought, How like the living God. Unfazed by my wandering and tantrums, his faithfulness never changes.
I took a few tentative steps and was in the national forest, where the woods waited patiently for me as if I’d never left. The previous night’s snowfall decorated the pines in crystal pearls, and an unbroken trail welcomed me into the belly of the forest and its sacred silence. With each tentative step, my physical insecurity faded, and my muddled thoughts cleared. And I began to zakhar.
Unfazed by my wandering and tantrums, his faithfulness never changes.
My thoughts stretched back and touched those places in my life where the wilderness threatened to swallow me up, but God wouldn’t allow it: the adoption into an abusive home, destructive choices, career upheavals, betrayal, rejection—he covered it all. I was never alone in my story. To zakhar brings a quickening of hope and a return to peace.
The snow softened under my feet, and my slow steps rendered a rhythm that was soon accompanied by prayers of gratitude. The same God who shaped the first snowflake and scattered majesty over the wilderness had created me. He saw my faltering steps and my faltering trust, and with the same power he used on behalf of the Israelites, he revived my soul.
Leaving the forest that day, I thought of spring and how bright wild irises would soon punch through the snow, reminding winter that all the power belonged not to the season—but to the One who had choreographed it. Then, I thought of the Israelites and how God weaves something into our wanderings, a remembrance that he unearths for us to come back to.
God weaves something into our wanderings, a remembrance that he unearths for us to come back to.
When you face your own time in the desert, bring yourself back to stillness. Resist the rhythm of worry and doubt. Instead, be still. Sift through the hard places God has already led you through, and choose to create a new rhythm, one grounded in gratitude and zakhar. When you pause to look backward, that act of remembrance will help you take the next step forward.
Peggy Bodde is a writer, ministry founder, and pursuer of all things outdoors. @peggybodde
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