I was six when a thunderstorm first taught me what fear tastes like.
The power had gone out, and all around our small house, the lightning cracked like a whip from heaven. Shadows lunged across the walls, and my heart pounded louder than the rain on the roof. I had pulled the quilt up to my chin, eyes wide open, whispering the only prayer I knew: “God, don’t leave me.”
And just then, my dad pushed open the door. He didn’t say much. Just sat down on the edge of the bed, reached for my hand, and stayed there. The storm kept howling, but everything in me settled. Why? Because he was there.
Years later, I would learn that God introduces Himself with a name that echoes that same comfort: Jehovah Shammah. It first appears in Ezekiel 48:35, at the very end of a long and often sobering vision of Israel’s restoration. God lays out the new boundaries for Jerusalem, and then He names the city—not after its walls or leaders, but after Himself: “And the name of the city from that time on will be: THE LORD IS THERE.”
Jehovah Shammah: “The Lord is there.” Not “was” there. Not “might be” there. Is.
It’s a declaration God made long before you or I ever felt alone in the dark. Jehovah Shammah means the very presence of God is part of the landscape of our lives. It’s not earned. It’s not seasonal. It doesn’t depend on how many chapters we read or how tidy our faith feels. It means that wherever we are—whether in celebration or sorrow, in thunderstorms or silence—He is already there.
Think about that. Wherever you go, whether to a hospital room or an empty apartment or a place you failed—He is already there. You’re not waiting for Him to show up like a distant friend stuck in traffic. You’re walking into a place already echoing with His presence.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—that ache that whispers, “I’m alone in this.” You've sat in the middle of the chaos or the quiet and secretly wondered if God still draws near. But with Jehovah Shammah, there’s no need to wonder. His presence isn’t a feeling. It’s a fact.
Interestingly, this name comes at the very end of Ezekiel’s prophecy—a book filled with exile, destruction, the loss of temple and land. Israel’s identity had been scattered. And God gave them this final word: I am there. Not just in the former days of glory. Not just when the temple was full. Right now. In this scared, rebuilding moment—I’m still here.
That’s the beauty buried in ancient Hebrew. In a word like Shammah, you hear the heartbeat of the Father who never moved away, even when we did.
I remember during a particularly hard season of life, I went to church but barely held on. Worship felt flat. Prayer tasted like dust. But one Sunday, as I stood in the back pretending to sing, a child a few rows in front of me began to hum. No words. Just a soft, tuneless hum. The woman beside me smiled and said, “Even they can feel He’s here.” I don’t know why, but tears fell. Not because the music changed. He didn’t need a song to be there. He already was.
Jehovah Shammah means God isn’t just present when we sense Him. He’s present because that’s who He is. Whether your life feels like a stained-glass sanctuary or a ruined battleground, the name over your story hasn’t changed: The Lord is there.
So the next time the storm rolls in—whether outside your windows or inside your soul—remember this ancient name, whispered across centuries of sorrow and redemption. He is not the God who visits. He is the God who stays.
And when you reach out in the dark and think you’re alone, don’t forget: your hand is already held.
I was six when a thunderstorm first taught me what fear tastes like.
The power had gone out, and all around our small house, the lightning cracked like a whip from heaven. Shadows lunged across the walls, and my heart pounded louder than the rain on the roof. I had pulled the quilt up to my chin, eyes wide open, whispering the only prayer I knew: “God, don’t leave me.”
And just then, my dad pushed open the door. He didn’t say much. Just sat down on the edge of the bed, reached for my hand, and stayed there. The storm kept howling, but everything in me settled. Why? Because he was there.
Years later, I would learn that God introduces Himself with a name that echoes that same comfort: Jehovah Shammah. It first appears in Ezekiel 48:35, at the very end of a long and often sobering vision of Israel’s restoration. God lays out the new boundaries for Jerusalem, and then He names the city—not after its walls or leaders, but after Himself: “And the name of the city from that time on will be: THE LORD IS THERE.”
Jehovah Shammah: “The Lord is there.” Not “was” there. Not “might be” there. Is.
It’s a declaration God made long before you or I ever felt alone in the dark. Jehovah Shammah means the very presence of God is part of the landscape of our lives. It’s not earned. It’s not seasonal. It doesn’t depend on how many chapters we read or how tidy our faith feels. It means that wherever we are—whether in celebration or sorrow, in thunderstorms or silence—He is already there.
Think about that. Wherever you go, whether to a hospital room or an empty apartment or a place you failed—He is already there. You’re not waiting for Him to show up like a distant friend stuck in traffic. You’re walking into a place already echoing with His presence.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—that ache that whispers, “I’m alone in this.” You've sat in the middle of the chaos or the quiet and secretly wondered if God still draws near. But with Jehovah Shammah, there’s no need to wonder. His presence isn’t a feeling. It’s a fact.
Interestingly, this name comes at the very end of Ezekiel’s prophecy—a book filled with exile, destruction, the loss of temple and land. Israel’s identity had been scattered. And God gave them this final word: I am there. Not just in the former days of glory. Not just when the temple was full. Right now. In this scared, rebuilding moment—I’m still here.
That’s the beauty buried in ancient Hebrew. In a word like Shammah, you hear the heartbeat of the Father who never moved away, even when we did.
I remember during a particularly hard season of life, I went to church but barely held on. Worship felt flat. Prayer tasted like dust. But one Sunday, as I stood in the back pretending to sing, a child a few rows in front of me began to hum. No words. Just a soft, tuneless hum. The woman beside me smiled and said, “Even they can feel He’s here.” I don’t know why, but tears fell. Not because the music changed. He didn’t need a song to be there. He already was.
Jehovah Shammah means God isn’t just present when we sense Him. He’s present because that’s who He is. Whether your life feels like a stained-glass sanctuary or a ruined battleground, the name over your story hasn’t changed: The Lord is there.
So the next time the storm rolls in—whether outside your windows or inside your soul—remember this ancient name, whispered across centuries of sorrow and redemption. He is not the God who visits. He is the God who stays.
And when you reach out in the dark and think you’re alone, don’t forget: your hand is already held.
