Trusting God When He Seems Quiet

Yesterday was one of those Mondays where I felt everything all at once. Too much and not enough. Angry, tired, hopeful, lonely, spiritually dry—but oddly still full of a flicker of faith that refuses to go out. I’m starting to believe that emotions can actually wear down the body. They’re loud. They’re inconsistent. They’re draining. And they don’t always care about what’s true.

Honestly, I feel like God’s been silent lately. Not gone. Just quiet.

And I hate writing that out, because I know it’s not true. I know God hasn’t left. I know He hears me. I know He’s with me—everywhere, all the time. Psalm 139:7-10 comes to mind:

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”

I know this. I’ve studied it. I’ve clung to it. I’ve prayed it over other people.

But yesterday? Yesterday I didn’t feel it. Not even a little.

And I hate that, because it feels like I’m betraying God with my doubts. But at the same time, I know He’s big enough to handle them. So here I am—writing to keep from exploding, praying between the lines, hoping that maybe in the silence, He’s actually speaking in a way I just haven’t learned to listen for yet.

I guess what’s really messing me up is how easily my emotions try to rewrite the truth. One second I’m laughing with a friend and feeling like maybe I’ve turned a corner, then a thought hits me—something small, like a memory or a disappointment—and I spiral. Like a trapdoor opens under my feet and I’m falling through sadness, doubt, and disconnection.

Why does God feel so far?

Why does my prayer feel like it hits the ceiling and drops back down?

Why am I pouring out my heart and getting nothing but holy silence in return?

But then again… maybe God isn’t silent. Maybe He’s just still. And maybe still isn’t a bad thing.

I think of Elijah in 1 Kings 19:11-12—

“The Lord said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’
Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.
After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.
After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.
And after the fire came a gentle whisper.”

That whisper… that’s where God was. A whisper isn’t loud. A whisper doesn’t interrupt. A whisper waits until you’re leaning in close enough to hear it.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe God’s whispering and my emotions are just too loud to hear Him.

Still, I’ve been tempted to demand, “God, where are You?!”

But instead, this has been my prayer:
“Lord, I know You’re here, but I feel like I can’t find You. Why am I struggling to connect with You? Help me not to confuse silence with absence. Help me remember that Your truth is bigger than how I feel.”

And I really do believe that. I believe that truth and feelings are not the same thing. I believe that feelings can be deceiving, while truth is steady—even when I can’t see it. Even when it doesn’t comfort me the way I want it to.

Emotions are powerful. I’m not going to pretend they’re not. But they are not ultimate. And I’ve made a decision—not just yesterday, but every day—to keep my eyes on what I know instead of what I feel. That’s not easy. It’s war, honestly.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in the middle of a battlefield with two versions of myself. One that wants to scream at God and the other that wants to cry in His lap. One that says “This isn’t fair” and the other that says “Just hold on.” One that’s angry, and one that’s desperate.

I’ve come to realize both can exist. God’s big enough to hold both.

Psalm 34:18 says:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

It doesn’t say He shames them. It doesn’t say He avoids them. It says He’s close to them.

And I need that closeness more than I need answers.

I guess part of me assumed that if I’m faithful, I should feel close to God all the time. But that’s not biblical. That’s emotionalism. Even David—man after God’s own heart—cried out in Psalm 13:1-2:

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?”

That doesn’t sound like someone disconnected from God. That sounds like someone deeply connected—so much so, that when the emotional connection feels gone, the pain of it is unbearable.

I get that. I feel that.

But David didn’t stop there. A few verses later in Psalm 13:5-6, he says:

“But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.”

That’s the balance I’m fighting for.

Yes, I feel disappointed. Yes, I feel unheard sometimes. Yes, I feel like I’m knocking on Heaven’s door and no one’s answering.

But I will still trust in His unfailing love. I will still rejoice in His salvation. I will still praise Him—not because I feel like it, but because He is worthy.

There’s a discipline to faith that people don’t talk about enough. Sometimes faith isn’t this magical, peaceful thing. Sometimes it’s gritty. It’s showing up to pray even when you feel ignored. It’s reading the Word when you feel numb. It’s worshiping with tears running down your face, choking on lyrics you’re not sure you even believe in the moment.

That’s real faith. That’s tested faith.

So here’s my prayer tonight, and I’ll be real:

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Father,

I don’t understand why You feel quiet. I know You’re not gone. I know You love me. But right now, I feel dry, tired, and like I’m wandering around in a fog. I need You. Not just Your blessings, not just Your answers—I need YOU.

Help me to hear Your whisper.
Help me to lean in, instead of walking away.
Help me to live by truth, not by mood swings.

Help me not to fall for the lies the enemy plants when You seem still.
Lord, make me faithful in the silence. Make me attentive in the quiet.

Give me eyes to see You, even if it’s just in a sunrise, or a kind word, or the peace in my own chest.

You’re worth trusting. Even now. Especially now.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.