Milk, Honey, and Maple Syrup: An Unexpected Promised Land

When my family landed in Dubai for a stopover, we found ourselves trapped—with no home, no community, and no plan. What happened next led to a four-year detour on our journey to our dream life. 

It turns out that wandering in the desert isn’t just for our ancestors. They were freshly liberated from Egypt, but they still weren’t home. They had been set free only to be led straight into the wilderness. They were stuck living in the in between. 

But as I came to see for myself, an empty landscape is often exactly where God does his best work.

Stuck in the Desert … Literally

In early 2020, my wife Cara and I were making plans to move to Israel from our home in South Africa. It was a dream long in the making. We were ready to begin a new chapter of life in the land of our people. But like millions of others, our plans were thrown into chaos by COVID-19.

By the time we were finally able to fly, the world had changed dramatically. Lockdowns, border closures, and a growing list of unknowns made travel incredibly complicated. But we were determined. In December 2020, we packed up our lives and set off—only to get stuck.

We landed in Dubai, thinking it would be a short stopover as we continued to Tel Aviv. But because of a resurgence in COVID cases and the emergence of the Delta variant, Israel shut its borders. What was supposed to be a minor stop became four months.

We were, quite literally, in the desert. With no friends, no clarity, and no timeline,

We were, quite literally, in the desert. With no friends, no clarity, and no timeline, we lived in a kind of ambiguous limbo. And yet, even there, God met us. 

As Passover approached, we had no idea how we’d observe it. But through a series of connections, a local rabbi helped us find matzah, and we joined a group of Jewish expats for a Seder in the heart of Dubai. 

It certainly wasn’t what we’d imagined. But it was something holy. A modern-day retelling of the ancient story, shared by people scattered in the desert, just like our ancestors. It reminded me that even when we feel far from everything familiar, God is never far from us.

In April 2021, we finally made it to Israel. We were overjoyed. And soon, our joy was compounded; Cara found out she was pregnant. New life in the Holy Land felt like the fulfillment of our dreams. But what followed was anything but easy.

The Broken-Promised Land

Because our aliyah application (the procedure for Jewish immigration to Israel) was still pending, we couldn’t leave Israel. That meant Cara and I had to walk through the pregnancy without the support of our families—no mothers or relatives nearby, no one to lean on during a physically and emotionally complicated pregnancy. 

We were grateful but also exhausted, grieving the life we thought we’d have, and unsure whether we’d even be allowed to stay. It was a season marked by the paradox of joy and fear, hope and heartache. Still, we pressed on.

Just as we were beginning to settle in, we received heartbreaking news. Cara’s father had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. With no clear answer on our aliyah status and no sense of permanence in Israel, we made the risky decision to fly back to South Africa to care for him.

What we didn’t know was that more heartbreak awaited us there. Soon after we arrived, we learned that my mother was also terminally ill with cancer. Two parents, two diagnoses, and a new baby in the mix. All while living out of suitcases (again). At this point, we hadn’t had a home for over two years. We were living from Airbnb to Airbnb, always in transit, never rooted.

Spiritually, it felt like the Israelites’ journey between Egypt and Canaan. The land had been promised, but we hadn’t arrived.

Spiritually, it felt like the Israelites’ journey between Egypt and Canaan. The land had been promised, but we hadn’t arrived. We were pitching tents in the desert, trying to build a normal life with very little around us that was stable or secure.

In that emotional whirlwind, the news came: our aliyah application was rejected. Because of my Messianic Jewish identity, my application had been denied—even though I am Jewish and entitled to citizenship, I was deemed “Christian,” no longer Jewish and no longer entitled. 

To me, having been raised by two Orthodox Jewish parents, Israel became the broken-promised land. We were stunned. After everything we had sacrificed, everything we had believed, we were told we would not be allowed to make Israel our permanent home. It was a mirage in the desert.

We were disoriented. Wounded. Grieving not just the loss of our parents’ health, but the loss of a future we thought God had been leading us toward. We had followed the cloud, only to find ourselves in another barren stretch of land.

But just like our ancestors, we began to see that the wilderness isn’t God’s rejection. It’s his classroom.

The Wilderness is Filled with Sorrow and Joy

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, we received a call about a job opportunity in Toronto. At first, it seemed like a stretch. A whole new continent? Another move? More uncertainty? And yet, peace. A peace that didn’t make sense on paper, but settled deep in our spirits. After praying, we said yes. We packed up again, this time with a toddler in tow, and prepared to move to Canada.

Just days before our departure, God performed one more miracle. My dad, an Orthodox Jewish man of deep faith and tradition, decided to follow Yeshua. After thirteen years of praying, crying, and hoping, I had the privilege of praying with my father as he placed his trust in the Jewish Messiah. It was provision from God—water from a rock, manna from the sky.

But the wilderness wasn’t over.

Shortly after arriving in Canada, while we were still waiting for our immigration paperwork, we lost my mother to cancer. Then—in a completely unexpected turn—my father fell ill, was also diagnosed with late-stage cancer, and suddenly passed away. A few months later, Cara’s father passed away from cancer as well. Three parents. One year. 

It was a season of deep, compounding grief. We were in the wasteland: far from family, still without a permanent home, still living in the unknown. But God was not absent. In fact, he felt more present than ever.

We didn’t have a land flowing with milk and honey, but we had daily manna, and we learned that it was enough.

Just like the Israelites in the wilderness, we began to experience daily provision. Not just financially, but emotionally and spiritually. Friends appeared. Opportunities cropped up. Community began to form. We didn’t have a land flowing with milk and honey, but we had daily manna, and we learned that it was enough.

Our Story Doesn’t End in the Promised Land

Eventually, we were able to find a home and, for the first time in more than four years, we unpacked our bags. Little Levi got his own bedroom. We could breathe again.

It wasn’t what we imagined. But it was exactly what we needed. We joke that we’ve traded the land of milk and honey for the land of half-and-half and maple syrup, but even that sweetness is a gift. This is where God has brought us. And this, at least for now, is our Promised Land.

This year, as we prepare for Passover, I find myself thinking less about Egypt and more about the desert. I think about the years of wandering—the hunger, grief, confusion, and miracles. The presence of God showing up in the most unexpected places. I used to think freedom happened overnight. But now I know it happens one day at a time. It may start with a rushed exit, but it’s lived out through daily trust.

Freedom is trusting God even when the path ahead isn’t clear. It’s holding onto hope when dreams collapse. It’s pitching tents in the desert and believing that the Promised Land still lies ahead. It’s walking with a cloud by day and a fire by night, even when you don’t know where they’re leading.

Passover is about more than deliverance from Egypt. It’s about God forming a people in the wilderness. And he’s still doing that today.

So wherever you find yourself this Passover, whether you’re in a dream home or still very much in the wilderness, know this: God is with you. He sees. He provides. He walks with you through the dry seasons and prepares a table even in the desert.

We’ve lived it. We’ve wandered it. And we’ve tasted the sweetness of his provision along the way.