Standing in the Negev Desert—where Abraham once journeyed as a sojourner—I was reminded that God’s promises are not distant Bible stories. They are alive, active, and often spoken long before anything looks different.

Standing on the edge of the Ramon Crater, surrounded by silence and endless rock formations, I felt very small—and strangely, very seen. This land doesn’t shout. It whispers. And if you listen closely, you begin to understand why God so often speaks in the desert.

Travelling through the Negev Desert, the visual impact was overwhelming. Vast. Harsh. Unforgiving.

I tried to imagine how the ancient Israelites survived here. No roads. No maps. No water systems. Just a complete, daily reliance on God’s provision.

Honestly? I don’t think I would last very long out there.

No wonder God Himself led them—a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. In a place where survival was impossible without guidance, God’s presence wasn’t symbolic. It was necessary.

The desert exposes our limits very quickly. And perhaps that is exactly why God uses it.

We stayed one night in Mitzpe Ramon, a quiet desert town overlooking the breathtaking Ramon Crater. As I stood there, wrapped in cool desert air, I remembered something profound:

It was in the desert that God revealed Himself to Abraham as El Shaddai—God Almighty.

Here, God made His covenant:

“That I may make my covenant between me and you, and may multiply you greatly…
I will make you very fruitful; I will make nations of you, and kings will come from you.”
— Genesis 17:2–6

Why reveal Himself as God Almighty here?

Because when all natural resources are absent, El Shaddai is the only one left to look to.

In this same wilderness, Abram became Abraham—a new name and a new destiny. A man who left comfort, security, and familiarity to follow God into the unknown. Not only did he go—he convinced his entire household to follow as well.

That kind of obedience is not comfortable.
It is costly. And it still impacts us today.

As I lingered on Genesis 17, another detail unfolded with fresh weight—Sarah’s name.

Before Isaac existed.
Before her body showed any sign of change.
God spoke not only to Abraham—but about Sarah.

And He renamed her.

Her original name, Sarai (שָׂרַי), means “my princess.” A beautiful name, but a limited one—private, contained, belonging to one household.

God changed it to Sarah (שָׂרָה), meaning simply “princess.”
No longer possessed.
No longer confined.
A title meant to echo across generations.

In Hebrew, the change is even more powerful. God removes the final letter י (yod) and replaces it with ה (hey)—the same sacred letter He adds to Abraham’s name. In Scripture, hey is associated with breath, life, and divine revelation.

It is as if God breathes His own presence into their identities.

Sarah’s circumstances did not change that day.
Her womb was still barren.
Time had not been reversed.

Yet God spoke to her not according to her limitation, but according to His promise.

Sarah was not renamed because she had borne a son.
She was renamed because God had spoken.

Standing in the Negev, I felt the weight of this truth:
God often changes who we are before He changes what we see.

That is why I created the Israel Calendar—to bring these sacred places and Scriptures into everyday life, month by month.

My prayer is that it reminds you of God’s covenant love, His faithfulness through generations, and His habit of speaking hope in unlikely places.

So let us pray—for the Jewish people, the children of Abraham, that their hearts will one day recognise the Messiah who fulfils every promise God has ever spoken.