Tag: Emotional Healing

The Power of Silence: Embracing Alone Time with God

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I don’t even know where to begin tonight. My heart feels swollen—full, tender, bruised, burning—and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m angry, or sad, or overwhelmed with gratitude. Maybe it’s all of it at once. Maybe that’s how it is when God is trying to peel away the noise of the day, the demands of the world, and draw me—this stubborn, distracted, restless child—back into His presence.

“Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

That verse should be tattooed on my forehead at this point. Or maybe on my phone screen. Or on the inside of my eyelids so I see it every time I blink. Because being still does not come naturally to me. It’s like my soul is always pacing, anxious, trying to do everything and fix everything and be everywhere.

But tonight, I felt that tug again—the one that whispers, Come away with Me. And I finally listened.

I don’t know what made me pause. Maybe it was the heaviness I’ve been carrying this week. Maybe it was the argument I had with someone close to me. Maybe it was the way loneliness hit me out of nowhere this afternoon, like a sudden gust of wind that knocks you sideways. Or maybe it was the way Scripture just wouldn’t leave me alone today.

Especially this one:
“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” —James 4:8

God isn’t the one who moves away. I am. Every single time.

So tonight I turned off the lights, closed my bedroom door, and sat on the floor—back against the wall, knees tucked up like a little girl. No music, no phone, no distractions. Just silence. Thick, unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable silence. And it dawned on me like a confession: I don’t know how to be alone with God anymore.

Isn’t that ridiculous? I’m a grown woman. I’m a Christian. I teach others about prayer, I post verses on my Instagram stories, I encourage people to “seek His face”… and yet when I tried to just sit with Him, quietly, intimately, intentionally, I felt like I was fidgeting in the waiting room of my own soul.

Why is this so hard?

I think part of it is anger. Not anger at God, but anger at how everything around me pulls me away from Him. Angry at the constant noise, the expectations, the pressure to keep up, to respond, to maintain connections on apps I don’t even care about. Angry that society applauds busy schedules and crowded calendars but views solitude with God as something odd—something reserved for monks or overly spiritual people who don’t live in the “real world.”

But Jesus lived in the real world. Jesus was busy. Jesus had crowds pressing against Him, disciples needing Him, people chasing Him for miracles. And still, Scripture says:
“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” —Luke 5:16

Often. Not occasionally. Not when He felt like it. Not when He was overwhelmed. Often.
If the Son of God needed that silence, that solitude, that “alone with the Father” time—who am I to think I can survive without it?

Tonight I told Him everything. Things I haven’t said out loud. The things I hide behind laughter or “I’m fine” texts or keeping myself busy enough not to feel. I told Him about the ache in my chest that’s been there for months. I told Him about the confusion I feel about my future, the frustration of praying for things that still haven’t moved. I told Him about my impatience, my fear, the relational tensions that make me feel like I’m cracking in places no one can see.

And then I told Him what scares me most:
I don’t like being alone with myself, so sometimes I avoid being alone with You.

But instead of shame, He gave me peace. That whisper again. That gentle warmth. That softening of my breathing. It felt like He settled into the room with me—not dramatically, not loudly, but deeply. Quietly. Intimately.

Like He had been there all along, waiting for me to stop running.

I think that’s what the devotional writer meant—those instinctive reactions we all have to danger. Grabbing a child before they fall. Pulling someone away from harm without thinking. Our bodies react automatically because we’ve lived long enough to know: danger demands response.

But oh, how I long for my spirit to be like that.
To turn to God just as quickly.
Without thought.
Without debate.
Without hesitation.

To bend my attention His way the moment fear whispers, or anxiety rises, or loneliness creeps in.

Maybe that’s what practice does. Maybe intimacy with God grows the same way instinct does—slowly, quietly, through repetition, through time spent, through discipline that doesn’t feel glamorous or exciting.

I guess I just never realized how little discipline I’ve had in this area.

I value community so much. I love fellowship, gathering with friends, going to church, being part of something bigger than myself. But what good is community if I’m spiritually dry? What good is fellowship when my own soul is panting like David described:
“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for You, O God.” —Psalm 42:1

How can I pour out if I haven’t sat still long enough to be filled?

Tonight I prayed a simple prayer—one that tasted like honesty and surrender and longing:

“Father, teach me to be alone with You again. Strip away the distractions. Make me hunger for Your presence. Let silence become sacred to me, not scary. Let solitude become sweet, not strange. I want to know You deeply, truly, personally—not just through sermons or songs or conversations, but through stillness. Draw me into that place where it’s just us. And don’t let me substitute noise for intimacy anymore.”

I felt tears sliding down my face before I even realized I was crying. I guess that’s what happens when the Holy Spirit moves quietly enough to bypass my defense mechanisms.

Then another verse washed over me:
“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly…” —Colossians 3:16

Richly. Not barely. Not occasionally. Not when convenient. Richly.
You can’t be filled with something you never make time for.

And I think that’s what tonight really exposed: I want the comfort of God without the commitment of solitude. I want His nearness without giving Him my attention.

But real love—real relationship—doesn’t work like that. Not with God. Not with anyone.

So here I am, writing this entry with a heart that is still tender, still humbled, still wanting more. Wanting Him. Wanting that quiet, that peace, that awareness of His presence that doesn’t need a worship band or a sermon or a crisis to trigger it.

Just Him.
Just me.
Just us.

If I’m honest, I’m still a little angry—angry at how easily I get spiritually scattered. Angry at how the world trivializes solitude. Angry at myself for neglecting the one relationship that matters more than anything. But maybe that anger is the spark God will use to fuel change. Maybe holy frustration is sometimes a gift.

My prayer now is simple:

“Jesus, make being alone with You my instinct. Make Your presence the place my soul runs to first. Let the disciplines that intimidate me become the habits that anchor me. And when distractions tempt me, whisper louder. When I drift, pull me back. When I forget, remind me gently. I want to know You—not just as my Savior, or my Provider, or my Protector—but as the One I sit with, quietly, daily, lovingly, intimately.”

I think I’m beginning to understand something:
The more time I spend alone with God, the better I can love people.
The more I know His voice, the better I can hear others.
The more I rest in Him, the more I can show up fully present in my relationships.
And the more His Word settles into me, the more my heart is transformed into a place where His love can breathe.

“In Your presence there is fullness of joy.” —Psalm 16:11

I want that fullness—desperately. Not the surface-level stuff. Not the temporary encouragement of a good worship song. Not the emotional high of a Sunday service. I want the daily, deep, quiet, unshakeable joy that comes from being with Him… even when no one sees, no one applauds, no one knows.

Tonight was a beginning. Not dramatic. Not fireworks. But real. A step toward intimacy I didn’t realize I’d lost. A moment of stillness I didn’t know I needed.

Maybe being alone with God isn’t as mysterious as I’ve made it. Maybe it’s simply surrendering my attention—bending it toward Him again and again until it becomes instinct. Maybe the joy of His presence is waiting in the quiet moments I keep avoiding.

So here is my final prayer before I sleep:

“Lord, keep me close. Teach me silence. Teach me stillness. Teach me to love the quiet moments with You more than the noisy moments with the world. Make me a woman who is not only filled with Your Word but shaped by Your presence. And let my time alone with You be the well from which everything else flows.”

Amen.

Sacred Echo: Listening to Heaven’s Heartbeat

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I went to bed last night asking God to show me more of His heart. I know I say I want to know Him more, but how often do I really press in for His sake, not just for what He can do for me?

This morning, while journaling, I wrote:


“God, I want to know You—not just know about You. I want to understand what breaks Your heart and what makes You smile.”

It hit me hard: I say I love Him, but how often do I actually seek to understand Him, not just myself through Him?

Most people walk around so desperate to be seen, known, and loved. I get it. I’ve been there. I still have those days. But then I remember—this ache to be known is actually something we inherited from God Himself.

Genesis 1:27 reminds me, “So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.”

If I bear His image, then it makes sense that the ache in me to be known is actually a glimpse into how God longs to be known.
I’m created with that desire because He has it first.

Sometimes I look around at Christians and ponder… how are we so satisfied with just Sunday morning services, small groups, and bumper-sticker theology?

We memorize verses like Isaiah 55:9—“As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts”—and then use that as an excuse to not even try to know God’s heart.

But that’s lazy. And let’s be honest, it’s prideful. Because we want a god that fits in a sermon series or a devotional plan. But the real God? He’s infinite. And if we don’t dig deeper, we’ll stay infants in our faith, knowing about Him but never knowing Him.

I’ve been praying over Jeremiah 29:13 lately.
“You will seek Me and find Me, when you seek Me with all your heart.”

It doesn’t say, “when you scroll Christian TikTok for an hour” or “when you listen to worship music passively.” It says, “with all your heart.”

ALL. Not a part. Not when it’s convenient.
That one verse alone has been wrecking me.

So today I turned off my phone. Sat with my Bible. Prayed in honesty. Not performance. Not pretty words. Just raw. Just real. Just me.

I told God, “I want to know Your heart. I want to know what makes You weep and what makes You rejoice. I want to love what You love and hate what You hate—even when it costs me popularity, even when it separates me from shallow Christianity.”

And He met me. Not in thunder or lightning. Just in quiet. In peace.

I read about Jesus weeping at Lazarus’ tomb—not because He was powerless, but because He feels deeply. He didn’t rush past the pain. He sat in it. That’s the heart of God.

I read about the woman at the well. About Peter’s restoration. About God’s justice in the prophets. About His mercy in the Psalms.

And slowly, I started to feel like I wasn’t just reading about God—I was sitting with Him. Like a friend. Like someone worth knowing deeply.

If we want to know God’s heart, we have to move past religion and step into relationship.

Yes, God is holy. Yes, His thoughts are higher. But He’s also Emmanuel. God with us. He stepped down to make Himself knowable. Jesus came not just to save us, but to show us what the Father is like.

John 14:9—“Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.”

So if I want to know the heart of God, I need to look at Jesus. His compassion. His fire. His correction. His mercy. His truth.

And if I’m not willing to carry all of that—not just the feel-good parts—then do I really want to know Him? Or do I just want a version of Him that fits my comfort?

Tonight, I’m ending with a prayer:

Father, reveal Your heart to me. Not the filtered version. Not the Instagram caption version. I want the real You. The One who weeps over sin, who rejoices in truth, who loves with fire in His eyes and scars in His hands. Teach me to walk with You, not ahead or behind, but right beside You. I don’t just want Your blessings. I want Your heart. I want to be a woman who makes Heaven smile. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Inhale Peace, Exhale Fear: A Prayer For Calmness

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

God,


Something horrible happened today. I don’t even know how to write about it without screaming, crying, or just breaking completely. But I made a vow—to You, Lord—that I would process pain through prayer, not panic. So here I am, raw and real.

You already know what happened, of course. You’re sovereign, all-knowing, omnipresent. But I still feel the need to tell You. It’s like talking helps me breathe when I’m drowning. And today… I am drowning.

The news hit me like a brick wall. Shocking, senseless, and so gut-wrenchingly unfair. It’s the kind of thing that plants anger deep in the chest. The kind of anger that burns. The kind that could so easily lead to sin if I don’t run to You first. That’s why I’m writing—so I don’t go off on the world, but rather, run straight into Your arms.

Lord, the weight of this injustice tempts me to lash out, to clap back, to defend what’s right with the sharpest tongue I have. But what would that fix? You said, “The anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God” (James 1:20). I repeat that verse over and over to myself like a heartbeat. You said vengeance is Yours, not mine (Romans 12:19). And I trust You.

The Serenity Prayer

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”

But God, it’s so hard to stay calm. This world doesn’t value truth. It praises cruelty. It celebrates what is evil and mocks what is holy. That’s why I feel like a stranger here, like a foreigner in a land that doesn’t understand my values—Your values.

I’m not pretending to be okay. I’m not sweeping it under the rug. I’m not “letting it go” just to avoid conflict. I’m confronting it in prayer because I refuse to let the enemy manipulate my emotions. I’m putting my emotions on the altar.

I am not fragile. I’m not weak. I am a daughter of the Most High God. I carry the Spirit of peace within me—“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). I will not let fear, anger, or rage hijack this moment.

So instead of lashing out, I inhale Your peace, Lord.

I inhale the stillness of Your presence.
I inhale the quiet strength of the Holy Spirit.
I inhale the promise that You are near to the brokenhearted and save the crushed in spirit .(Psalm 34:18)


And I exhale this fear. I exhale the urge to retaliate. I exhale the chaos in my mind and the storm in my chest.

God, I feel like Peter, stepping out on water in the middle of a storm, eyes on You, until the wind and waves make me start sinking. But I know what to do. I cry out: “Lord, save me!” And You always do.

Let me be clear: calmness isn’t passivity. I’m not “calm” because I’m afraid to speak up. I’m calm because You have equipped me with discernment. And when the time is right, I’ll speak—but not from a place of rage. From a place of authority rooted in You.

So here’s my prayer, Father:

A Prayer for Calmness

Heavenly Father,


You are the God of peace, the Prince of calm in the midst of the wildest storms. Today, my soul is shaken, and my emotions rage like a hurricane, but I run to You for shelter.

Still my thoughts, Lord. Quiet my heart. Let Your Holy Spirit fall fresh on me, washing away the heat of my anger and replacing it with clarity, boldness, and peace. I don’t want to numb the pain—I want to transform it through Your presence. Help me to be angry and not sin (Ephesians 4:26). Give me the words to say when silence is no longer holy, and the wisdom to hold my tongue when silence speaks louder than rage.

Help me to stand for righteousness without becoming self-righteous. Let my calmness confuse the enemy. Let my peace be a weapon against the chaos. Let me respond with grace, not because I’m weak, but because I am strong in You.

I believe that even on a day like today—especially on a day like today—You are still working. And something good, something glorious, will rise from these ashes.


In Jesus’ mighty name,
Amen.

This pain isn’t pretty. It’s not poetic. It’s jagged and real. But I still believe—with every fiber of my being—that God will make it beautiful. He always does. Romans 8:28 isn’t just a coffee mug verse. It’s the lifeline I’m clinging to: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”

So tonight, I won’t fall asleep bitter. I won’t let this horror pull me out of alignment with You, Lord. I will weep. I will pray. I will breathe.


And I will wake up tomorrow, calm and courageous.

Because I inhale peace. And I exhale fear.

Amen

Is Heaven Listening? The Power of Prayer is Real

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Tonight, my heart feels so full and so fragile all at once. The world outside my window is quiet—just the soft hum of the fan and the occasional chirp of a cricket. But inside me, it’s anything but quiet. I feel stirred. Not anxious exactly, just… aware. Aware that I need God more than ever, and somehow, even when I whisper the tiniest prayer, I know—really know—that Heaven is listening.

But some days I do wonder. I’m not proud of that, but it’s honest. Is Heaven listening? When my voice cracks under the weight of what I can’t even put into words, is God really hearing me? And more than that—does He care?

Tonight, I opened up to Psalm 34:17:

“The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; He delivers them from all their troubles.”

I held onto that verse like it was oxygen. Because today I cried—not out loud, but in that quiet way where you hold your breath so no one hears, but your soul is screaming. I didn’t have the strength to pray long or with eloquence. All I could manage was: “Jesus, I need You.”

And that was enough.
It had to be enough.

Lately, prayer has felt less like a ritual and more like my lifeline. It’s not about pretty words anymore. I don’t even bother with formalities. I talk to Him like I’d talk to my best friend. Because He is.

He’s the only one who’s been with me through everything—the bad breakups, the confusion after college, the loneliness I didn’t expect at this age. Everyone told me life would feel more settled by 24, but honestly? It just feels like more questions, more pressure, more waiting.

But prayer reminds me I’m not waiting alone.

A Little Prayer Tonight:

Jesus, thank You for listening even when my words are few. Thank You for not being distant, even when I feel far away. Draw me back to You tonight. Remind me that my prayers are not in vain and that You’re doing something in the silence—even when I can’t see it. Amen.

I remember something my grandma used to say: “You don’t always need to hear from Heaven to know that Heaven hears you.” I never understood that until now. I think about the times I’ve prayed for things that didn’t happen the way I wanted—but somehow, it worked out better later. Maybe unanswered prayers are God’s mercy in disguise.

1 John 5:14 brings me comfort, especially on days like this:

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us.”

I keep asking for clarity—about my future, about my purpose, about whether I’m doing this life right. But maybe what I need more is courage. The courage to keep praying even when the answers feel far away.

Earlier today, I journaled this prayer (before I even opened my Bible):

Lord, I don’t want to treat prayer like a last resort. I want it to be my first move. Even when I don’t see immediate results, remind me that You’re always working behind the scenes. Let me trust the process and trust Your heart, even when Your hand feels hidden.

When I think about prayer, I don’t just think about asking. I think about connecting. Like, deep soul-to-God connection. And that changes everything. It’s not about wish lists—it’s about presence. His presence. And when I feel that, even just a little, I’m okay again.

I think of Philippians 4:6-7 so often:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.
And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

That verse has literally carried me through panic attacks. I read it out loud when my heart races, and it’s like the Word itself becomes a balm over my chaos. I still struggle with fear sometimes, but prayer has become my shelter.

Tonight’s final prayer:

Abba, You are my refuge. When everything feels uncertain, Your love remains. Help me to not just pray out of desperation, but out of devotion. Remind me that every whispered prayer reaches You. That not one word falls to the ground. That You’re near. I surrender my need to understand, and I choose to trust that You are good, always. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

So, is Heaven listening?

Yes. I believe that with every fiber of my being—even on the days when I don’t feel it. Faith isn’t about always feeling—it’s about choosing to believe, even in the silence.

And tonight, I choose to believe. I choose to believe that the Power of Prayer is real. That my small, trembling voice matters to a big, powerful God. That my tears don’t go unnoticed. That even now—right now—Heaven is not just listening, but leaning in.

Goodnight, Jesus. I love You.
Thank You for loving me first.
More than anything else in this world, I belong to You.

God, Why Am I Always at War?

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I’m so exhausted, Lord. So spiritually tired. I’m angry—not just annoyed, not just inconvenienced—angry. Raging. I feel like I’m walking through life with a bullseye on my back and every demon in hell has permission to aim. Why? Because I belong to You? Because I chose Jesus over comfort? Then where’s the peace You promised?

“Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” – Ephesians 6:17

I read that verse today like it’s supposed to be some magical defense, but if I’m being completely honest, it just made me more frustrated. What the heck is the helmet of salvation supposed to do when my mind feels like a warzone? I feel like I’m drowning in lies, constantly second-guessing if I’m even saved at all. Isn’t the helmet supposed to protect my thoughts?

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Prayer #1:
God, I need You to quiet the noise. Put Your hands over my ears and silence the voices that tell me I’m worthless, faithless, hopeless. Remind me what salvation actually means—because right now, it just feels like another label I don’t live up to.

I’m tired of people preaching like we’re not supposed to struggle with doubt. Like salvation is a one-time prayer and poof, we’re bulletproof. No one talks about the days where you cry yourself to sleep asking God if He still loves you. No one admits that they sometimes wonder if they’re too broken for grace.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” – 2 Timothy 1:7

Then why is my mind so noisy? Why do I feel like I’m stuck in a blender of thoughts that I can’t shut off? If salvation is supposed to protect my mind, how come I still wake up feeling anxious, confused, like I’m failing as a Christian?

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Prayer #2:
Jesus, help me believe that You didn’t save me to abandon me. Help me trust that even in my doubt, You’re still holding me. I want to believe You’re still proud of me, even when I’m a mess.

Today at church, the pastor said the helmet of salvation guards our identity in Christ. I rolled my eyes. If it really did, why is it the first thing that gets attacked? My identity in You feels like it’s under constant assault. One day I believe I’m a child of God, the next day I feel like a fraud. I’m sick of this rollercoaster.

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” – Romans 8:1

Then why do I feel condemned all the time? I make one mistake and it’s like my brain goes into full panic mode—“You’re not really saved, are you? Real Christians don’t mess up like that.” I hate how easily I forget grace. I hate how quickly I believe the worst about myself.

Prayer #3:
Lord, cover my mind. Not with Pinterest quotes or cute Instagram theology—but with truth. Remind me who I am. Remind me that salvation isn’t about my perfection, but Your persistence. Thank You for chasing me even when I don’t feel worth chasing.

I think I’ve misunderstood the helmet. I thought it was supposed to stop the attacks from coming. But maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about protection in the fight, not from it.

“You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.” – Isaiah 26:3

Peace feels like a fairy tale some days. I don’t even know what “perfect peace” looks like. But I want to. God, I want to trust You enough that my thoughts stop spiraling every time something goes wrong. I want a mind that’s steadfast, not scattered.

It’s just… hard. So freaking hard. The people around me think I’m strong because I quote scripture and lead Bible study and show up with a smile. But inside I feel like I’m barely holding on. Nobody sees the nights I scream into my pillow, asking You where You are.

Prayer #4:
God, give me the kind of faith that holds when everything is falling apart. Not the “churchy” kind, but the raw, real kind that fights for truth when everything inside me feels like it’s lying.

I think I finally get what the helmet of salvation really is—it’s not something I put on to look holy. It’s not about appearances. It’s about remembrance. It’s a helmet because I’m in battle. It’s salvation because that’s my anchor. It protects my mind from forgetting who I am and whose I am.

“The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me.” – Psalm 28:7

I don’t feel strong. I feel like glass. But maybe You’re strong in me. Maybe the helmet doesn’t stop the blows, but it keeps them from cracking my skull open. Maybe salvation doesn’t mean I don’t fall—but it means I never fall alone.

Prayer #5:
God, help me to remember that You’ve already won. Even when I feel like I’m losing. Even when my thoughts are chaos and my heart is heavy. Teach me to wear this helmet every day—to cling to the truth that I’m Yours, even when I don’t feel like it.

So yeah, I’m still angry. I’m angry that being saved doesn’t mean being safe from pain. I’m angry that the mind You gave me is also the battlefield the enemy uses the most. But I’m also starting to understand that my anger doesn’t scare You. You already knew this walk wouldn’t be easy. That’s why You gave me armor.

So tomorrow, I’ll wake up, and I’ll put on the helmet of salvation—not as some shiny religious badge, but as a reminder:
I’m still here.
I’m still His.
And I’m still fighting.

Because my mind may be a battlefield—but my Savior is a warrior.

And He doesn’t lose.