Faith Over Chaos

I am Hagar.

Hagar was a single mom—not because she made reckless choices, but because she obeyed the people who held power over her. She wasn’t perfect (join the club), but she did what she was told. And for fourteen years she walked around with her head held high because her boy—her Ishmael—was the heir. The heir to Abraham. The heir to covenant. The heir to the promise.

And honestly? Who wouldn’t think that? Fourteen years is a long time to watch Sarah not get pregnant. Even Sarah didn’t believe her own miracle was coming—if she had, she wouldn’t have handed Hagar over to Abraham like a spiritual shortcut.

But the minute Sarah felt that first flutter of life inside her, Hagar’s whole world started cracking. She lay awake at night wondering what this meant for her son. Abraham was a good man, sure—but good men can still break your heart when they’re torn between two worlds.

I am Hagar.

I am a single mom lying awake at night, wondering how the choices, actions, or silence of my child’s father will land on the heart of the kid we both created.

And then came the day Ishmael—teenage, hormonal, probably annoyed Ishmael—made fun of Isaac. One sarcastic comment, one teenage eye-roll, one moment of “I’m over this,” and Sarah lost it. Suddenly the promise Hagar thought belonged to her son was gone, and now she wasn’t just losing status—she was losing her home, her family, her place in the world.

I am Hagar.

I know what it feels like to have your whole life collapse because of one moment. I know what it feels like to be a teenage mom whose parents decide your choices are too messy, too shameful, too much—and suddenly you’re alone.

Hagar wandered into the wilderness with bread, water, and a breaking heart. And when the water ran out, so did her hope. Scripture says she put Ishmael under a bush, and for years I pictured a toddler. But he wasn’t a baby—he was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Old enough to understand. Old enough to feel the fear. Old enough to cry out.

So now I imagine Hagar telling her teenage son, “Stay here. I’ll find water.” And he waited. And he cried. And she walked away because watching him die felt harder than dying herself.

I am Hagar.

I have had nights where hope ran dry. Nights where my child and I went to bed hungry because we ate what little we had. Nights where I wondered if my son would be better off without a mother who was barely holding it together.

But God heard Ishmael.

And the angel of God called to Hagar—not to shame her, not to scold her, but to lift her chin. “Go get your son. Take him by the hand. I will make him a great nation.”

A new promise.

A promise spoken right into the middle of her despair.

A promise big enough for both of them.

I am Hagar.

I have seen turmoil in my children’s lives—but I also see promise.

“For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope.”

Romans 15:4

I am Hagar because I have walked through despair—and God has taught me to hope again.

So maybe today you feel a little like Hagar—tired, scraped thin, wandering with whatever “bread and water” life handed you. Maybe you’ve put your own hope under a bush because watching it die felt easier than believing again. But the God who heard Ishmael hears you too. And He’s still the God who opens eyes to wells that were there all along. So go to the garden—whatever quiet corner you can claim—and let Him remind you that despair is never the end of your story. Hope is. And He’s already waiting for you in the shade.

Helping you find peace in the garden again—even if you’re hiding under the bushes crying.