Sometimes, as I sit in the quiet of my home and begin to pray, I can feel a tad ridiculous.
I’m reaching out into a silence that doesn’t always feel like it reaches back. There are mornings when I find myself wondering if my words are even making any sense, or if they are just hitting a dead end and falling flat on the carpet. If you are new to this – or even if you aren’t, you’ll likely know that feeling all too well. It is the nagging, uncomfortable doubt that you are just a person in an empty room talking to the walls.
As I continue my journey into the Anglo-Catholic tradition, I am realising that listening to God isn’t about waiting for a loud, booming voice to shake the window frames in reply. Since I can’t rely on my eyes to navigate the world, I’ve always had to lean into my other senses. I’ve learned the shape of a room by the way the air moves or the way a floorboard creaks. Prayer is becoming a lot like that.
God isn’t a sight to be seen; He is a presence to be felt.
It is like trying to tune an old radio through the thick, scratching static noises of my own anxiety and the endless “to-do” lists running through my head. I have started using the Rosary, not because I’m some kind of saint, but because I need the weight of those beads in my hand. I need that cold, smooth wood against my skin to keep me grounded as I pray. Without that physical anchor, my mind likes to wander off into the noise and unwelcome distractions.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus tells us, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” To hear that voice, we first have to be still enough to recognise it. That is a terrifying concept if you really think about it. It means we have to stop talking, stop performing, and just… be.
Elijah found God in the “sheer silence.” Not the wind, not the earthquake, and not the fire. He was in the quiet. For me, learning to listen has meant trusting that even when I’m stumbling over my own words or feeling “silly” for speaking outloud, He is leaning in to listen. My physical eyes might not see Him, but He is there, making Himself comfortable in the midst of my mess.
If you are like me and just starting out, please don’t worry about having a perfect script on hand. God isn’t a judge on the X Factor waiting for a polished performance; He is a Father waiting for a chat. Tell Him it feels weird. Tell Him you aren’t sure if you’re doing it right. He meets us exactly where we are – in our doubts, our sensory limitations, and our messy silences.
Take a moment today to just sit. You don’t need a foolproof plan. Just offer up your presence and say aloud, “Lord, I am here.”
Wait. Breathe. And listen. You might be surprised to find that the silence isn’t empty, and you were never actually alone.
Blessings,
Frankie.
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