We visited En Gedi, a lush oasis hidden in the rugged cliffs along the western shore of the Dead Sea. Surrounded by endless beige rock and desert silence, En Gedi feels like a contradiction — water flowing freely in a land defined by dryness. Known for its natural springs, waterfalls, and deep biblical roots, it is one of the most remarkable places in the Judean Desert.

The hike from the visitor center to the waterfall is officially listed as fifteen to twenty minutes. Easy, right? That’s what we thought too. But under the desert sun, without shade in sight, every minute stretched longer. The air was dry, the path dusty, and my confidence slowly melted away.

By the halfway point, I was already questioning my fitness level and wondering how anyone survived here thousands of years ago — let alone ran for their life through these cliffs. The desert doesn’t waste time humbling you. It strips things back quickly, including your illusion of control.

Just when I was convinced my legs were done for the day, we heard it — water. The sound grew louder, and suddenly the waterfall appeared, cascading down the rock face like a reward you didn’t know you needed so badly. Cool mist brushed my skin, and the exhaustion instantly felt worth it.

Standing there, something clicked.

This is where King David once hid while fleeing from King Saul. Scripture tells us that Saul brought three thousand elite soldiers to hunt him down. Three thousand. And yet David survived here — in these narrow valleys, caves, and jagged cliffs. En Gedi wasn’t a poetic hiding place. It was a strategic one.

Refuge suddenly didn’t feel like a metaphor. It felt like shade, rock walls, and water in the middle of nowhere. No wonder King David can write Psalm 18:2 from his heart. 

On our way out, we encountered a group of Nubian ibex — wild desert goats that look adorable until you watch them move. They casually scaled sheer cliffs like gravity was optional. Hooves gripping stone, leaping across gaps, knocking loose rocks as they went.

One small rock bounced off my head. That was my cue to leave. My husband, meanwhile, was fully committed to his wildlife-photographer moment.

Cute? Yes. Safe? Questionable. Impressive? Absolutely.

Later, another verse echoed in my mind:
“He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; He causes me to stand on the heights.” (Psalm 18:33)

The ibex didn’t rush. They paused, tested the ground, then moved decisively. Their confidence didn’t come from safe terrain — it came from how they were made.

Every time I look at those photos, I’m reminded that faith isn’t about having an easy path. It’s about trusting the One who formed both the cliffs and our ability to walk them.

So if life feels rocky right now, maybe the prayer isn’t, “God, remove the cliff.”
Maybe it’s, “God, make me sure-footed.”

And maybe — just maybe — refuge is closer than we think.