The God of Now
How Quickly We Forget
The desert wind stung their faces as the last of the sun bled across the horizon. Sand scratched at their sandals with each step, and the heat of the day clung to their skin even as the shadows stretched long and thin across the wilderness.
They were free—finally free.
Even so, fear still pressed at the Israelites’ heels like an unwelcome companion. They could still hear the roar of the Red Sea closing behind them, still see the towering walls of water trembling at their sides, still feel the earth shaking beneath their feet as God tore open a path where none should have existed (Exodus 14:21–31). Their children had run through the sand laughing. Their elders had whispered prayers with trembling lips. Their voices had risen in a song of relieved victory so loud it echoed across the desert (Exodus 15:1–21).
But freedom didn’t make the wilderness easy. Before long, hunger gnawed at their stomachs while fear whispered its familiar poison. And somehow, incredibly, they began to remember Egypt with a strange fondness, as though chains had been comfort and oppression had been warmth. They spoke of pots of meat and bread to the full, rewriting the past as though the lash of a whip had been kind and slavery generous (Exodus 16:3). With the Red Sea behind them and hunger before them, forgetfulness took full bloom in the space between. The God who’d split the sea suddenly seemed silent, and their trust collapsed under the weight of the now.
Centuries later, the disciples stepped into their own kind of wilderness, and the same pattern surfaced. They watched Jesus feed five thousand men, besides women and children, with five loaves and two fish. They stood in the middle of the miracle, handing out bread that never seemed to run out. And when everyone had eaten, the disciples gathered what remained—twelve baskets of fragments, one for each of them to carry away (Mark 6:30–44).
Then another now moment arrived.
Another crowd had followed Jesus into a remote place and remained with Him for three days. Four thousand hungry people were there, and Jesus told His disciples He had compassion on them. Yet faced with another impossible need, the men who’d already carried baskets filled with miraculous leftovers looked around at the wilderness and asked, “How can one satisfy these people with bread here in the wilderness?” (Mark 8:4).
Reflection
When I read these accounts, they’re almost maddening. Why couldn’t they just trust? I ask myself.
The Israelites weren’t relying on stories handed down from generations before them. They’d been there. They’d walked between walls of water and felt dry ground beneath their feet. They’d watched the sea close behind them and knew the God who’d opened it. Yet when hunger followed deliverance, the need in front of them somehow became larger than the miracle behind them.
Centuries later, the disciples did the same thing. Their own hands had distributed bread that shouldn’t have been enough. Their own arms had carried the leftovers. Yet when another hungry crowd gathered in the wilderness, their problem again became larger than the memory. What God had already done was real. But what they needed Him to do now felt more immediate.
The present swallowed what the past had already proven. And I’m tempted to shake my head in disbelief.
But then…
I remember myself.
I’ve lived my own version of that forgetting more times than I care to admit. I’d spent years writing for business publications and crafting fiction, with coaches and beta readers helping me refine my skills. But writing about God’s Word, hoping to help others grow closer to their Savior? Why me? This carried a responsibility I felt so many others—writers whose work I read and admire—were better equipped to shoulder.
So, when my wife and I prayed about moving forward with the I Call Him Papa website, there came a moment when Papa’s answer seemed unmistakable. Not a guess. Not a maybe. At a specific time, standing on a specific step in a specific place, I knew He was telling me to move forward. I remember the certainty of that moment even now.
But clarity didn’t erase the wilderness. I’d never built a website, let alone committed to writing for others in the name of Christ. The obstacles came quickly—setbacks, unexpected resistance, and emotional fatigue I hadn’t anticipated. More than once, I threw my hands up and said, “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” And more than once, my frustration spilled onto people who didn’t deserve it. My wilderness wasn’t hunger, but it exposed something painfully familiar. The need in front of me became louder than the certainty behind me.
I knew what Papa had told me. I knew how clearly He’d answered. None of that had changed.
But the moment had.
And somehow, that was enough to make me forget.
Maybe that’s why Israel and the disciples don’t seem quite so baffling when I’m willing to see myself standing beside them. It’s not that the past wasn’t real.
It’s that the now feels louder.
Pressure shrinks our memory. Fear narrows our vision until all we can see is the problem in front of us. Israel had watched the sea open. The disciples had held multiplied bread in their hands. I could point to the very step where I believed Papa had answered me. Yet I can’t count the number of times the now moment has overshadowed God’s faithful provision of yesterday.
So, what feels louder in your life right now than everything Papa has already shown you? What has the pressure of today caused you to forget? And when you look back honestly, what evidence of His faithfulness is already there?
That’s where remembering becomes more than nostalgia. Throughout Scripture, God repeatedly calls His people to remember what He’s done (Deuteronomy 8:2; Psalm 77:11)—not so they can live in the past, but so His faithfulness there can steady them here. The past gives us evidence. The present gives us somewhere to trust Him with it. Memory becomes fuel for present faith.
So, if your confidence slips when the moment in front of you becomes louder than everything behind you, it doesn’t mean your faith is broken. Sometimes we simply need to remember again. Remember the doors He opened. Remember the nights He carried you. Remember the peace that arrived when peace made no sense. Remember the people He sent at just the right time. Remember the things you survived that should have undone you.
Because the wilderness has a way of whispering old lies—as old as Eden. It tells us this need is different. This problem is bigger. This time we’re alone. And suddenly the question is no longer whether God can, but whether He will—now, for me, in this moment.
The now is where trust becomes real.
Faith remembers what God has done, but it can’t live yesterday. Faith holds tightly to what God has promised, but it can’t live tomorrow. We can look backward for evidence and forward with hope, but we can only trust Him here—in this breath, this fear, this need, this step.
The past was never meant to stay behind us. It was meant to remind us who’s walking with us now.
Prayer
Papa,
I forget so easily. When the need in front of me becomes louder than Your faithfulness behind me, remind me of the places You’ve already carried me. Bring back the rescues I’ve overlooked, the prayers You’ve answered, and the moments Your presence held me when I thought I couldn’t go on.
Let yesterday’s faithfulness steady my trust today. And when the wilderness whispers otherwise, remind me that the God who carried me then is still walking with me now.
Amen.
Biography
Michael C. Davis spent nearly thirty years wandering as an agnostic who was often angry with the God he wasn’t sure he believed in. After finding his way home, Michael has spent the closing years of a successful business career increasingly drawn to writing about the God he now calls Papa. Over the past year, he’s written nearly one hundred devotionals exploring Scripture through a relational lens and has completed two full-length manuscripts awaiting publication—Call Him Papa: From Religion to Relationship, an exploration of knowing God through relationship rather than ritual, and Letting Go of What Plagues Us: From Bondage to Belonging, a devotional journey through Exodus. You can explore more of Michael’s writing at www.MichaelCDavisAuthor.com.
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