“Truly my soul waits in silence for God.”
— a waiting I resist even as I name it.
The quiet after Sabbath unsettles me more than the noise that precedes it. When activity slows, I expect something to speak. A reassurance. A sign that the effort was worth it. Instead, there is often only silence.
God feels quiet today. Not distant, not absent—just unresponsive to my inward reaching. For a restless soul, this kind of silence can feel like neglect. I notice the urge to provoke a response, to fill the space with words, explanations, even devotion.
And yet, I sense the paradox at work. The very silence that unnerves me is what steadies me. Without commentary, without affirmation, my soul is left with nothing to lean on but presence itself.
I stay longer than I want to. Long enough for the anxiety to soften into something like trust. Long enough to realize that God’s quiet is not indifference, but invitation.
Perhaps this silence is not something to endure, but something appointed. A necessary stillness where faith learns to breathe without being answered.
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