𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

There comes a time when the distractions cease, and the lights fade out. I'm reminded with the hardships that surround me and watch as my world continues to cave in on itself. 

It's in these moments that the silence settles in like fog. Not in a peaceful silence, but rather a suffocating smoke that presses in on your chest and asks questions no one seems to answer. 

Where is my God?

Why do my prayers seem to linger in the air?

I used to believe my faith would insulate me from pain and suffering. That if I followed Jesus close enough, the weight of my burdens wouldn't feel so detrimental. But life and Scripture seem to tell a different story.

Jesus wept. 

Jesus fell apart. 

Jesus bled. 

I'm learning that silence isn't absence. It's a different kind of presence, one that doesn't perform or preach. It just is. And somehow in that quiet and silence, something sacred is held. 

Never have I felt so closely distant as I do now. 

So, I let my tears flood my bed (Psalm 6:6) and let myself sit in the unknown. 

There are no tidy resolutions here. No three-step plan to peace. Just shaky breaths and tears as I watch the slow unfolding of grace that doesn’t always feel so graceful. 

I dwell on Elijah in the cave. Shaking, alone, and pleading for death to take him. In those moments God's presence wasn't a radiant ray that fell from the heavens. It was a still whisper. A presence Holy enough to stay. 

Sometimes faith isn’t victory.
It’s waking up and getting out of bed despite it all.
It’s whispering prayers you’re not sure anyone hears.

In the silence and the suffering maybe that's what I am holding onto:

Not a God who fixes everything.

But a God who refuses to leave.