Tag: faith journey

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.

Footprints of Faith: Following Jesus Every Day

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Lord,

Today I feel like I’m standing still in the middle of a world sprinting in every direction. The noise, the expectations, the pull of my own thoughts—it’s exhausting. But You whispered something to my heart today. Something that anchored me:

“This journey of life was never meant to be traveled alone.”

You didn’t just save me to send me off. You saved me to walk with me.

Sometimes I forget that, Jesus. I know it in my head, but I don’t always live like I know it in my heart. Life gets loud, people get messy, and the days run together like spilled paint. But Your Word reminds me:

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way.” – Psalm 37:23

You delight in my way. You don’t just tolerate my existence or sigh every time I mess up. You actually delight in walking beside me. That floors me.

Why do I so easily forget that You’re right here?

I was reading this morning in Isaiah, and this verse stood out like a flare:

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.” – Isaiah 43:2

You never promised I’d avoid the waters—you just promised I wouldn’t drown. And honestly, lately, it’s felt like I’ve been wading through an ocean of unknowns. But You’re still here, walking beside me, even when I can’t see through the waves.

Jesus, the more I walk with You, the more I realize how much I need to walk in awe of You. Not just in obedience. Not just in routine. But in absolute reverence. The kind of reverence that makes me put my phone down, step away from distractions, and just be with You.

I know the world doesn’t celebrate walking slowly, intentionally, or sacredly. But I do. Or at least I want to.

This walk with You—it’s not always easy. You confront me. You lovingly correct me. You expose the parts of my heart I want to hide. But You do it with such gentleness, like a surgeon with healing hands.

You never humiliate me. You heal me.

And I’m starting to see how walking with You is the only path that actually changes me. Not religion. Not rules. Not even good works. Just You. Just Jesus.

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” – Micah 6:8

I’m learning that “walking humbly” doesn’t mean shrinking back. It means staying close to You, knowing full well You’re the one holding my hand.

Jesus, can I be honest?

Sometimes I still want control. I still want to call the shots, make the decisions, and map out my future like I’m the creator of time itself. But I’m not. You are. And You’ve never once led me wrong.

It’s hard to surrender. It’s hard to let go. But I’m slowly realizing that walking with You means letting You lead—even when it doesn’t make sense.

You taught me this during my last job when everything crumbled. I was sure that position was my “calling.” But now, looking back, I see it was just a classroom. You were teaching me how to trust You when my identity isn’t propped up by titles.

Thank You for stripping that from me.

Yeah, I said it. I’m thankful for the stripping. Because it forced me to walk more closely with You.

This journey with You is less about where I go and more about who I become. And every step with You is shaping my character—refining me, stretching me, and anchoring me in something real.

So today, I’m asking You for more.

Not more stuff. Not more followers. Not more clarity.

But more of You.

Give me a deeper hunger for Your Word. Let it be the first place I run, not the last.

Give me a holy craving for Your presence—stronger than my desire for approval, comfort, or success.

And give me the boldness to confront the lies in myself and in others. Not to be self-righteous, but to be righteous. There’s a difference.

People need truth, Jesus. Real truth. Not watered-down, “cute” Christianity that doesn’t offend anyone. You didn’t die a brutal death just to make us comfortable.

You died to make us new.

So if I’m really walking with You, my life better start reflecting that.

God, help me not to just talk about You, but to actually walk with You.

Help me be the kind of woman who prays more than she posts.

The kind of woman who forgives quickly and loves fiercely.

The kind of woman who isn’t afraid to confront sin—in love—and call people into truth, not out of shame, but out of deep compassion.

And if anyone reading this (even if it’s just me re-reading it later) doesn’t know You yet, then let me just say this:

You can start walking with Jesus today.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need to clean yourself up first. You don’t need to have some spiritual resume or emotional perfection.

Just pray. Be real. Be honest. Jesus is listening.

Here’s the prayer that changed everything for me:

“Jesus, I believe You are who You say You are. I believe You are the Son of God, that You died for my sins and rose again. I surrender my life to You. I don’t want to walk alone anymore. I give You my past, my present, and my future. Come into my life and lead me every step of the way. Amen.”

That’s it. That’s the first step. And once you take it, He will walk with you.

He won’t promise the path will always be easy, but He will promise that you’ll never walk it alone.

So here I am, Jesus. Again. Choosing to walk with You—step by step, even when I can’t see the full path.

Thank You for never leaving my side. Thank You for being patient when I wander, and strong when I’m weak.

And thank You for growing me. Even when it hurts.

“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” – James 4:8

Today, I draw near.
Today, I walk with You.
Today, I choose the narrow road—because You’re on it.

And I’ll keep walking with You until I finally see You face to face.

God’s Guardrails Are Not Just a List: How the 10 Commandments Keep Me Grounded

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

More than ever before I feel God’s presence like a warm light wrapping around my soul—just comforting enough to remind me I’m not alone. I’ve been thinking deeply about something a new friend said at small group over the weekend: “God’s guardrails are more than just a list.” How true that is! The Ten Commandments—they’re not rules meant to chain me; they’re loving boundaries from a Father who wants the best for me.

When I first encountered the Ten Commandments as a kid, I thought of them as a little pile of “thou shalt nots,” like rules that threatened punishment if broken. But over the last few years—especially now at 24—I’m discovering they’re liberating guardrails. Ironically, these boundaries don’t limit me; they protect me. They keep me grounded in truth, love, and purpose.

📖 “For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” —2 Timothy 1:7. This tells me He didn’t give those commandments to scare me. He gave them so I could walk in confidence, rooted in His love, free from fear of “messing up.”

💕 Commandment by Commandment: How They Guide Me

  1. “You shall have no other gods before me.”
    — It’s a daily reminder that when I idolize my career ambitions, relationships, or even comfort, I’m drifting away from Him. I pray: “Lord, You alone are worthy of my highest devotion. Teach me to keep You at the center.”
  2. “You shall not make for yourself a carved image…”
    — In this age of comparison on Instagram and TikTok, it’s easy to idolize trends, aesthetic, or image. I whisper: “Help me focus on who I am in You, not what I look like to others.”
  3. “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.”
    — I catch myself sometimes saying God’s name in frustration. I repent: “Father, forgive my careless words. Let my tongue speak life and honor.”
  4. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.”
    — Oh, how I struggle with rest! My heart races at the thought of doing nothing. But Sabbath reminds me that rest is holy and necessary. “God, grant me peace in stillness and remind me You are enough.”
  5. “Honor your father and your mother.”
    — This one has softened me. My parents have taught me so much about faith and grace. I pray: “Thank You for them. Help me honor them in word, deed, and heart.”
  6. “You shall not murder.”
    — It’s about more than physical harm—it’s about words. I’ve let frustration boil into bitterness. “Lord, guard my heart and my words; let me speak life, forgiveness, and grace.”
  7. “You shall not commit adultery.”
    — My future spouse deserves holiness. I guard my eyes, my thoughts, my purity—heart, mind, and body. “Keep my mind pure and my heart faithful, Lord.”
  8. “You shall not steal.”
    — It’s more than property—what about time, attention, honor? Do I “steal” someone’s right to feel seen? “Give me a generous heart, not a selfish one.”
  9. “You shall not bear false witness.”
    — Gossip is insidious. “Help me speak truth in love and defend those who can’t defend themselves.”
  10. “You shall not covet.”
    — That ache in my chest when I scroll and feel less-than? That’s covetousness. “Lord, cultivate contentment in me. Teach me to delight in Your provision.”

🌺 Guardrails or Gateways?

This morning, I was running late and my heart thundered in my chest—fear, worry, frustration. My to-do list rolled on. And then I caught the whisper: “Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10). In that moment I realized, the guardrails aren’t barriers; they’re gateways. The guardrails offer a route back to Him when I’ve drifted into chaos. They invite me into shelter.

When I honor the Sabbath, I actually find joy in rest. When I guard my speech, I build up others. These commandments protect me from self-destruction and evil influences.

🙏 Prayer of the Heart

Heavenly Father,
I thank You that You are not distant or cold. You are a loving Father who set these commandments to guide my heart, not condemn it. When I was younger, I saw them as burdens. Now, I’m seeing them through the lens of redemption and transformation. Please:

  • Root me in Your love and not in fear.
  • Illuminate the times I drift without realizing it.
  • Guard my heart from idols—money, approval, even my own agenda.
  • Help me offer rest to my soul and mercy to others.
  • Shape my speech to be truth-laden and life-giving.
  • Give me contentment so covetousness has no foothold.

Thank You that Jesus fulfilled the law and that in Him, I don’t walk in condemnation. Instead, I walk in grace. When I fail, I remember “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us…” (1 John 1:9).

✨ Real-Life Glimmers

This week, I saw the power of the commandments in real life.

  • At work, when gossip bubbled up, I chose to change the subject. My coworker thanked me later—it felt like a mini-mission moment.
  • In a friendship, I offered a listening ear rather than advice. Took the commandment against taking from someone else’s time personally.
  • Internally, I noticed less comparison when I devoted ten minutes of prayer each morning. It’s subtle, but oh, so sweet.

It’s like each commandment is a little lamp lighting my path. They’re not legal chains—they’re kind directions that help me walk with clarity.

💞 My Prayer for You

If you’re reading this and wondering, “Do I really need these ancient rules?” I’d say yes—because they’re not ancient limits, but divine love letters. In a world that tells us to define our own truths, the commandments are like a Compass pointing us back to our Creator.

I pray that you find freedom in each guardrail:

  • Let the first two commandments remind you who you are in Christ and who God is—evoking awe, worship, and alignment.
  • Let the middle commandments shape your rhythms: rest in Him and honor family.
  • Let the last ones guide your ethics: how you speak, act, love, desire.

💌 Nighttime Prayer

Lord Jesus, You are the fulfillment of the law. At night, when the world quiets down, You whisper rest to my soul. Help me to rest not from work but in You. Remind me that I am not defined by my performance or perfection. You see me, You love me—even when I fall short. Thank You for sending Your Spirit to convict, guide, and empower me. May I live tomorrow tethered to Your truth. No cultural trend, no fear, no strife can unmoor me when You are my anchor.

“The Lord will guide you always; He will satisfy your needs in a sun‑scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well‑watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” —Isaiah 58:11

With all that I am and all that I will become, I place my trust in You. I want Your commandments to be written on my heart (Jeremiah 31:33), not out of obligation, but out of love.

Amen.

🌙 Final Thought

As a 24-year-old who stumbles, dreams, hopes, and seeks, the Ten Commandments aren’t obsolete—they’re so relevant. They guard the digital spaces where I dwell, the relationships I treasure, and the dreams I chase. They’re not just a list—they’re a lifeline.

So tonight, I tuck into bed, whispering, “Goodnight, Lord. Thank You for Your guardrails. Keep me grounded—and free—in You.” And I rest with that sweet sense of being deeply, truly, unconditionally loved.

Cling to the Cross: How to Keep Yourself in God’s Love

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

For a while now, at least since Spring I’d honestly say, my heart has been heavy, but not with sorrow—more like reverence. A deep, weighty awareness of how fragile my love can be compared to Yours (God’s). I’ve been sitting with Jude 21 all week:

“Keep yourselves in God’s love as you wait for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to bring you to eternal life.” – Jude 21 (NIV)

That verse doesn’t let me off the hook. It commands me. It tells me that remaining in Your love isn’t automatic—it’s intentional. And that convicts me.

Because, God… how many times have I allowed distractions, fears, or even just apathy to distance me from You? How many times have I let my emotions steer me away from Your presence instead of clinging to the cross like it’s my lifeline—which it is?

I sat in my car earlier after running errands, and I just started crying. Not out of sadness, really, but out of this mix of longing and guilt. I want to stay in Your love, but some days I don’t even know what that really looks like. And yet—Your voice, gentle and steady, reminded me: Cling to the cross.

Not just in the hard moments. Not just on Sundays. But every single day.

When I woke up this morning, I prayed out of routine. But by the time I got to mid-afternoon, I had already snapped at someone, scrolled mindlessly through my phone, and barely acknowledged You in the middle of my thoughts. And then tonight, You bring me back again—to Your Word, to Your presence, to Your mercy. You always bring me back.

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.” – John 15:4 (NIV)

You are the Vine. The source of love, strength, and truth. I’m just a branch. I dry out so quickly when I’m not connected to You. I think that’s why Jude tells us to keep ourselves in Your love. Because the world pulls hard. Our flesh pulls even harder. And the only way to stay in Your love is to choose it daily—to choose You daily.

Jesus, I don’t want to just visit Your love when life falls apart. I want to live there. Dwell there. Make it the home my heart always returns to. I want to cling to the cross—not out of desperation, but out of love and dependence.

I thought about what clinging to the cross really means, and I think it starts with remembering. Remembering what You did for me. Not just in a distant, “Sunday-school” way, but really reflecting on it. You gave everything. You suffered shame, pain, rejection—all for me. You didn’t hold back. How could I?

Lord, help me not to treat Your sacrifice like a safety net I only fall into. Help me treat it like the center of my life—the reason I do what I do, the lens I see everything through. When I’m tempted to wander, bring me back to Calvary. When I doubt, show me Your hands. When I feel unworthy, let me hear Your voice again: It is finished.

I guess what I’m realizing is that clinging to the cross looks a lot like choosing You in the smallest moments. Like…

  • Opening my Bible instead of opening a complaining text.
  • Choosing prayer over worry.
  • Forgiving when I want to sulk.
  • Turning off the noise and just sitting in silence with You.

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful.” – Hebrews 10:23 (ESV)

You are so faithful, Lord. Even when I’m not. Even when I wander. Even when I forget. And that faithfulness pulls me back into Your love every single time. It’s not a love I earned—it’s a love You gave. Freely.

Tonight, I wrote this simple prayer in my journal and I want to pray it out loud now:

Father God,

Thank You for the cross. Thank You that Your love was poured out in blood, not just in words. Remind me daily that Your love is not distant—it’s present. It’s active. It’s sacrificial.

Lord, help me to keep myself in that love. Teach me how to cling tightly when the world distracts and the enemy lies. Strengthen my heart to obey, to abide, and to remember that no matter what’s happening around me, Your love is constant.

When I feel cold or distant, draw me near again. Let my soul be tethered to Your cross—never wandering too far, never forgetting the cost of grace.

In Jesus’ holy name,
Amen.

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You know, I used to think “keeping myself in God’s love” meant being perfect. Like, if I read my Bible enough, prayed long enough, behaved good enough—then I’d stay in it. But now I know: Your love isn’t something I have to perform for. But keeping myself in it? That’s about protecting the space You’ve made for me. It’s about fighting to remain in the awareness of Your grace—fighting to stay in the shelter of it when my emotions say otherwise.

I’m reminded of Psalm 91:

“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” – Psalm 91:4 (NIV)

Your love is my refuge. My safe place. My covering. And I don’t want to step out from under that. I want to stay close—no matter how grown-up or independent I feel. Because truthfully? I’m nothing without You. I don’t want to be anything without You.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and whisper again, “Cling to the cross.” When my thoughts scatter, when my heart grows tired, when the enemy tries to accuse—I’ll choose the cross. I’ll choose the love that never gives up on me. The love that bleeds and redeems and resurrects.

I don’t always know what lies ahead, Lord. But I know what holds me now: Your love. And I’m keeping myself in it by clinging tightly to You.

God’s Got This: Resting in His Faithfulness

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

I needed to write tonight (Sunday June 22nd). My heart feels heavy, not with hopelessness, but with questions, confusion, and honestly—this overwhelming need to let go and trust You. It’s just… hard sometimes. My mind knows the truth: You are good, You are faithful, You are in control. But my emotions? They don’t always catch up.

Today was one of those days that tested me. Work was chaotic, and I felt like nothing I did was enough. I tried my best—stayed online late, double-checked everything in my project case, fake-smiled through it all. But deep down, I felt anxious. Not because of the project itself, but because I’m scared. Scared that I’m failing. Scared that You’re disappointed in me. Scared that maybe I’m not where I’m “supposed” to be.

But You reminded me of something powerful today.

Right in the middle of my anxious spiral, a verse popped into my head—like You whispered it gently to my spirit:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”
— Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

I’ve read that verse probably a hundred times. I’ve memorized it. Quoted it. But today… today it hit differently. I realized I’ve been leaning so hard on my own understanding. My own logic. My five-year plan. My checklist of how things should be going by now. And in doing that, I’ve subtly told You that I trust my own ability to figure life out more than I trust You.

That stung.

God, I’m sorry. I truly am. I know You don’t expect perfection from me, but You do want my trust. You want my surrender. And that doesn’t mean giving up—it means handing over the steering wheel and saying, “God, drive. I’ll go wherever You take me.”

So tonight, I’m choosing to say it again: God, You’ve got this. Whatever “this” looks like—my career, my relationships, my finances, my emotions, my future—I’m giving it to You. I want to be like David when he said:

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.”
— Psalm 56:3 (ESV)

Even David, a man after Your own heart, felt fear. But he didn’t stay there. He put his trust in You. Actively. Intentionally. That’s what I want to do too.

Here’s the truth, Lord. Trusting You isn’t always a one-time thing. For me, it’s like… a million little moments every single day. I trust You when I pray. I trust You when I let go of what I can’t control. I trust You when I stop rehearsing worst-case scenarios in my head. I trust You when I choose peace over panic.

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Honestly, it’s humbling. I’m 24, and there’s so much I thought I’d have figured out by now. But maybe that’s part of the journey. Maybe You’re allowing this space of “not knowing” to teach me how to walk by faith and not by sight.

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:7 (KJV)

Lord, that verse has been my anchor lately. It’s so countercultural to walk by faith. The world screams, “Have a plan. Be in control. Know what’s next.” But You whisper, “Follow Me. Trust Me. I know the way.”

Tonight, I needed to write all this out to remind myself—and maybe even to declare to You again—that I do trust You. Even when it’s messy. Even when my heart trembles. Even when I can’t see two steps ahead.

You’ve been too faithful for me to doubt You now.

I remember when I prayed for this job. You opened the door. I remember when I prayed for peace during Mom’s surgery. You flooded me with it. I remember when I asked You to show me if that relationship wasn’t from You—and You did, even though it hurt. You’ve always been there. Always come through. Always held me when I felt like I was falling.

So if I believe that You were God then, I need to believe You’re still God now.

Here’s a little prayer I want to pray tonight before bed:

Heavenly Father,
Thank You for being patient with me when I waver. Thank You for holding me when I’m tired of trying to hold everything together. I lay down my need to control, my fear of failure, my doubt, and my anxiety at Your feet.
You are the Author and Perfecter of my faith. I trust that You are writing a beautiful story, even if I’m only on a confusing page right now. Help me to rest in the truth that You see me, You know me, and You love me more than I can comprehend.
Teach me to trust You more tomorrow than I did today.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

I think about Peter walking on water sometimes. The second he looked at the waves instead of Jesus, he sank. And yet—You didn’t let him drown. You reached out and pulled him back up. That story gets me every time.

You didn’t shame him for looking away. You didn’t abandon him when he got scared. You just reached out and saved him.

That’s who You are, Lord.

You’re not waiting for me to be perfect. You’re just waiting for me to trust You.

So tomorrow, I’m going to my best to wake up and remind myself: God’s got this.

When God Whispers: Finding Faith in the Silence

Posted on by thechristiantechnerd

Today has been quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brings peace, necessarily — more like the kind of quiet that feels like You’re hiding. I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve felt distant from You lately, like I’m calling out into a canyon and all I hear is my own voice echoing back. It scares me.

I keep thinking of Elijah in 1 Kings 19. After the fire, after the earthquake, after the wind… there You were — not in the chaos, but in the still small voice. A whisper.

“And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper.”
— 1 Kings 19:12 (ESV)

I wonder if I’m just too distracted to hear Your whisper.

This morning, I sat with my coffee and tried to read the Word like I usually do. But I’ll be honest — I didn’t get far. My mind kept wandering to everything I feel like I’m missing: direction, clarity, certainty. I want to know what You want from me — with my career, with my singleness, with this sense of waiting I can’t shake.

I know faith isn’t about feelings. I know that. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But I miss feeling You near.

So I prayed:
“God, if You’re here — please, help me to hear You. Even in the silence. Especially in the silence.”

And right then, I felt a strange peace settle over me. Not loud. Not even warm, really. But steady. Like a whisper I couldn’t quite catch, but I knew was meant for me.

Maybe that’s what faith looks like sometimes — trusting that You’re present even when You don’t speak loud.

I remembered Psalm 46:10:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Being still is harder than it sounds. My brain constantly wants answers. Movement. Resolution. But You invite me into stillness. Not just quiet around me, but quiet in me. A heart that isn’t frantic for answers but anchored in You.

Faith, I think, is most real when it has to lean on who You are, not what I can hear or feel.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
— Hebrews 11:1 (ESV)

I guess I’ve been measuring closeness with You by how “seen” or “heard” I feel. But maybe this is one of those seasons where You’re inviting me deeper — past the emotional highs, into the quiet trust.

Like a relationship that matures. Less fireworks, more foundation.

There’s something beautiful and hard about that.

I walked down to the lake near my apartment this evening. The water was still — not a breeze. Just birdsong and the hum of life going on. I sat on a bench and asked You again: “Are You here?” I didn’t hear a voice. No signs. But my eyes caught this tiny ripple on the surface of the lake — like something beneath moved, unseen, but there.

I don’t know why, but I thought: That’s You. Moving beneath the surface of my life. Quietly. Faithfully. Even when I can’t see it. Even when I forget to notice.

It reminded me of Isaiah 30:15:

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”

That’s the kind of strength I want. Not the kind that performs or pretends to have it all figured out. But the quiet strength of a heart that trusts You are good — especially when I don’t have the map.

Jesus, I believe You are enough for me in the silence. I don’t need a booming voice or a perfect plan. I just need You. And You’ve promised You’ll never leave.

“And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
— Matthew 28:20 (ESV)

Tonight, I’ll go to bed still not knowing exactly what’s next. Still single. Still unsure about grad school. Still a little worn down. But I will lay my head down in peace — not because the silence is gone, but because You are in it.

You whisper, and that’s enough.

Let me learn to lean in. To trust even when You seem far. To believe that You’re close even when it feels quiet.

A Prayer Before I Sleep:

God,
Thank You for meeting me in the silence.
Even when I can’t feel You, You’re faithful.
Teach me to listen for Your whispers —
Not just in the quiet around me,
But in the stillness of my soul.
Grow my faith in the unseen.
Help me to rest in Your presence —
Not because I have all the answers,
But because I know You hold them.
I love You, even when I don’t understand.
I trust You, even when You whisper.
And I’m Yours, always.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.