The past year has been challenging for me as a wife.

I quit my job and moved from Texas to Nevada with my family—all while in my third trimester of pregnancy. I gave birth to my second daughter and became a stay-at-home mother while my husband transitioned into a position at work that required more responsibilities and weekly travel.

It was startling to be in a new state and city where I didn’t know anyone, literally isolated in the desert. The challenges did not stop once the furniture was arranged (and rearranged) and we had settled into a routine. So much happened in the first four months that I often believed (and adamantly asserted this to a few people) that God had intentionally brought me to the desert to make me a deeper well. I never said if that meant a well of wisdom or patience or salvation, but you would not deny that He was working on me!

We can only go so far on our own strength, but to go farther, we must surrender to our Father God.

I never took the time to figure out exactly what work was being done–I was too busy caught up in my suffering, caught up in knowing that some sanctification process was happening. I was too caught up in the realization that I was uncomfortable and dissatisfied.

While my husband packed a suitcase each week and enjoyed quiet nights at hotel rooms that offered continental breakfast the next morning, I operated on fumes and restless sleep while I wrangled energetic children.

I often felt alone, exhausted, sometimes abandoned. I bristled at the idea of handling minor catastrophes alone.

When I finally stopped bragging about the deep well that would be created and actually confronted the process I was enduring, I realized I was afraid to admit that I was experiencing a frailty that was foreign to me. I was so used to things being a certain way, to immediately conquering and understanding what was before me, but now, as God was indeed preparing me for something new, that also meant relying on him to get through it—something I hadn’t been doing for a while.

A scripture came to me while I was at my lowest—sitting in the closet, scream-crying into a pile of dirty laundry. It was:

“The bows of the warriors are broken, but those who stumbled are armed with strength.” (1 Samuel 2:4 NIV) 

In this and the preceding scriptures (1 Samuel 2:1-10), Hannah offers thanksgiving to God for what is essentially a reversal of fortune. She was barren until God gave her plenty: a child. She thanks the Lord for honoring her, but also for the good that has come out of her hardship and the joy that results from surrendering to Him.

It was a blunt reminder of my humanity and fragility. We can only go so far on our own strength, but to go farther, we must surrender to our Father God.

It’s in our brokenness that we are made whole again, stronger than before. Sometimes that brokenness doesn’t always look like what we expect. It could be that loneliness we experience while our spouse is constantly away.

Or emotional depletion from caring for your children or loved ones.

Or all-consuming sadness or rage at the unexpected changes in your circumstances.

But dwelling in this “brokenness” is what keeps us from receiving the bounty that God has for us. It keeps us from claiming new territory that He has set aside for us to steward.

We must acknowledge what is happening, be humbled in our situation, and then let God’s guiding hand allow us to overcome it. 

We cannot do anything on our own accord, and it is doing such that concedes recognition of our difficulty but prevents us from moving through it. We must acknowledge what is happening, be humbled in our situation, and then let God’s guiding hand allow us to overcome it.

When we warrior women break our bows against loneliness, anger, and exhaustion, or whatever else, and acknowledge that which we cannot control, our healing from the Mighty God will follow.

So, give yourself a moment to break your bows.


A moment to weep for monumental change.
A moment to mourn a loss of freedom. 
A moment to yearn for companionship.
A moment to reject isolation.
A moment to be angry.

These moments won’t always be pretty (see: me screaming into a pile of dirty underwear). But they begin the process of reconciliation, of pushing into and through our brokenness.

Once on the other side, we are stronger. We are alive. We are made new.


Guest Blogger: DW McKinney of dwmckinney.com

Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash

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