The knock on the door startled Miriam. It echoed louder than it should have through the quiet house. Dusk had settled, shadows stretching long across the floor. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it, heart heavy from a week of bad news—her husband’s job uncertain, her mother’s diagnosis unclear, her prayers unanswered.
On the doorstep stood her elderly neighbor, Naomi, holding a small loaf of bread still steaming in the evening cool.
“I thought you could use something warm,” Naomi said gently. Her eyes, framed by creases time had carved, sparkled with a knowing tenderness.
Miriam didn’t know what to say. She hadn't told anyone how overwhelmed she felt. But somehow, Naomi had known.
“I call Him El Shaddai,” Naomi added softly, almost as an afterthought.
“El... what?” Miriam asked.
“El Shaddai,” Naomi said again. “Sometimes we call Him Almighty. But there’s more to that name than strength.”
Later that night, Miriam couldn’t sleep. The weight hadn’t lifted completely—just shifted. Her Bible lay open beside her, and her eyes traced the words she had read a hundred times but never truly seen:
“When Abram was ninety-nine years old, the Lord appeared to him and said, ‘I am El Shaddai—God Almighty. Walk before Me and be blameless.’” (Genesis 17:1, NLT)
El Shaddai. God Almighty.
But there was more. That same name appears again, whispered by another Naomi—not her neighbor, but the Naomi of Scripture—when she returned bitter and broken from a long journey of grief:
“Don’t call me Naomi,” she said. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter... The Lord has brought me back empty.” (Ruth 1:20–21, NLT)
Miriam sat up straighter. The same God who called Himself El Shaddai in the promise of new life to Abram was the God Naomi cried out to in her loss. Same name. Same God.
And then she understood—it wasn’t just about power. It was about presence.
El Shaddai, scholars say, carries two meanings. Yes, it declares God’s might. He is strong enough to carve rivers through deserts and speak stars into being. But the name also hints at something tender—like a mother nourishing her child. In Hebrew, "shad" can mean "breast," suggesting sustenance, nurturing care.
Miriam blinked at that. Could God be both fearsome in strength and fierce in love? Could the One who spins planets also whisper peace into tear-stained prayers?
Maybe you’ve asked it too—when life leaves you aching: Is God strong enough to change this?... and kind enough to want to?
El Shaddai says yes.
When Abram was too old to hope, El Shaddai gave him a promise impossible to fulfill by human strength. When Naomi came back feeling empty, it was El Shaddai who began to refill her story—little by little, line by line—until joy found its way back in the form of a grandson cradled on her lap.
And when you sit in the middle of a quiet house, with unread letters on the counter and things left unsaid between you and someone you love, El Shaddai is still both mighty and tender—able to part seas, yes, but also to mend hearts.
It’s okay to feel both awe and ache. Some days, we need to see God's strong arm defend us. But other days, we need to lean into His chest and just be held.
That’s what Miriam saw that night. And maybe it’s what you need today—not a miracle or a thunderclap, but the quiet knowing that the same hands holding up the universe are also holding you.
So take the next step, even if it’s shaky. Whisper the name if that’s all you can do. El Shaddai. He hears. He holds. He heals.
The knock on the door startled Miriam. It echoed louder than it should have through the quiet house. Dusk had settled, shadows stretching long across the floor. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer it, heart heavy from a week of bad news—her husband’s job uncertain, her mother’s diagnosis unclear, her prayers unanswered.
On the doorstep stood her elderly neighbor, Naomi, holding a small loaf of bread still steaming in the evening cool.
“I thought you could use something warm,” Naomi said gently. Her eyes, framed by creases time had carved, sparkled with a knowing tenderness.
Miriam didn’t know what to say. She hadn't told anyone how overwhelmed she felt. But somehow, Naomi had known.
“I call Him El Shaddai,” Naomi added softly, almost as an afterthought.
“El... what?” Miriam asked.
“El Shaddai,” Naomi said again. “Sometimes we call Him Almighty. But there’s more to that name than strength.”
Later that night, Miriam couldn’t sleep. The weight hadn’t lifted completely—just shifted. Her Bible lay open beside her, and her eyes traced the words she had read a hundred times but never truly seen:
“When Abram was ninety-nine years old, the Lord appeared to him and said, ‘I am El Shaddai—God Almighty. Walk before Me and be blameless.’” (Genesis 17:1, NLT)
El Shaddai. God Almighty.
But there was more. That same name appears again, whispered by another Naomi—not her neighbor, but the Naomi of Scripture—when she returned bitter and broken from a long journey of grief:
“Don’t call me Naomi,” she said. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter... The Lord has brought me back empty.” (Ruth 1:20–21, NLT)
Miriam sat up straighter. The same God who called Himself El Shaddai in the promise of new life to Abram was the God Naomi cried out to in her loss. Same name. Same God.
And then she understood—it wasn’t just about power. It was about presence.
El Shaddai, scholars say, carries two meanings. Yes, it declares God’s might. He is strong enough to carve rivers through deserts and speak stars into being. But the name also hints at something tender—like a mother nourishing her child. In Hebrew, "shad" can mean "breast," suggesting sustenance, nurturing care.
Miriam blinked at that. Could God be both fearsome in strength and fierce in love? Could the One who spins planets also whisper peace into tear-stained prayers?
Maybe you’ve asked it too—when life leaves you aching: Is God strong enough to change this?... and kind enough to want to?
El Shaddai says yes.
When Abram was too old to hope, El Shaddai gave him a promise impossible to fulfill by human strength. When Naomi came back feeling empty, it was El Shaddai who began to refill her story—little by little, line by line—until joy found its way back in the form of a grandson cradled on her lap.
And when you sit in the middle of a quiet house, with unread letters on the counter and things left unsaid between you and someone you love, El Shaddai is still both mighty and tender—able to part seas, yes, but also to mend hearts.
It’s okay to feel both awe and ache. Some days, we need to see God's strong arm defend us. But other days, we need to lean into His chest and just be held.
That’s what Miriam saw that night. And maybe it’s what you need today—not a miracle or a thunderclap, but the quiet knowing that the same hands holding up the universe are also holding you.
So take the next step, even if it’s shaky. Whisper the name if that’s all you can do. El Shaddai. He hears. He holds. He heals.
