‘I’ve come to realise that nostalgia, while sweet, can be a thief. It sometimes whispers, “You missed it. That was the best part.” And if I’m not careful, I start to believe it, not just about my life, but about God,’ says Lucy Macdonald.
Have you ever looked back and thought: “Was that it - was that the good part”? The job that energized you. The relationship that felt dreamy. The season where life seemed to have a golden hue. Do you catch yourself pondering on those days? And now? You feel like you’re wandering again - watching dust rise behind what once felt like your promised land.
Spiritually, emotionally, practically—many of us live in that in-between
It’s a disorienting feeling when what was feels brighter than what is. When forward looks dim, and you quietly wonder if the best really is behind you. Spiritually, emotionally, practically—many of us live in that in-between: no longer where we were, but not yet where we hoped to be.
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Psychologists have a name for this: rosy retrospection. It’s the brain’s tendency to remember the past more favourably than it really was. According to Psychology Today, we naturally filter out the hardships of former seasons and highlight the joys. It’s why we idealize college years, early motherhood, or even a job that - if we’re honest -stressed us out daily. I’ve found myself multiple times over the last month visualising my whimsical uni days and all the “carefree” moments, yet if I look back to chat history during that time with my family, I see I was reaching out for help and in need of support!
It can be comforting to glance backward.
It can be comforting to glance backward. I’ve been blessed to travel in my twenties, and I often catch myself scrolling through old photos; camping with Bedouins in the Israeli desert, snorkeling in the Pacific, snowboarding down Lebanese slopes, and wishing I could be back there. Those moments shimmer in memory, untouched by the stresses that may have surrounded them. But I’ve come to realise that nostalgia, while sweet, can be a thief. It sometimes whispers, “You missed it. That was the best part.” And if I’m not careful, I start to believe it, not just about my life, but about God. That his most faithful, most present, most miraculous days were back then. But he isn’t a God who stays in the past. He walks with us still.
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When the Israelites left Egypt, they were full of hope. They were headed for a land “flowing with milk and honey,” the fulfillment of a long-awaited promise (Exodus 3:17). But what followed was forty years of wandering in the wilderness - a season marked by delays, disappointments, and deep longing. The Promised Land felt perpetually just out of reach.
And in that wilderness, they wrestled with memory and disappointment, just like we do. They even said at one point, “We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost…” (Numbers 11:5)—forgetting they were slaves when they ate that fish. They romanticized the past because the present felt too uncertain.
But here’s what’s crucial: even in their wandering, God didn’t abandon them. He led them.
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His presence was visible, in a cloud by day and fire by night (Exodus 13:21–22). He provided daily bread; manna in the morning, quail at night (Exodus 16). He gave water from unexpected places, like a rock in the desert (Exodus 17:6). He spoke to them, giving not only laws but identity: “You will be my treasured possession” (Exodus 19:5). He was patient, even when they grumbled, doubted, and wanted to go back.
In the wilderness, God wasn’t just leading them to a destination. He was shaping them into a people who would trust him. Who he was to them in this season was not just deliverer, but sustainer, provider, covenant-keeper, and teacher.
And even when they failed, building idols, questioning Moses, complaining again, he remained faithful. He never withdrew his presence.
That same God walks with us now. Even when we feel spiritually stuck or emotionally dry, he hasn’t stopped leading. Even when the “Promised Land” of a dream, relationship, or purpose seems to lie behind us, his work in us continues.
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