Hearing Him In the Quiet

During my journey with the Lord, I’ve come to realize something deeply personal—He speaks to each of us differently.

If I’m being honest, there was a time I felt a quiet kind of jealousy watching my husband’s relationship with God. The Lord speaks to him so clearly, so boldly. There’s no question when it happens.

And then there was me… waiting, wondering, straining to hear anything at all.

I started to question myself.
Was I doing something wrong?
Was I not praying enough? Not praying the “right” way?
Why did it feel like everyone else could hear him… but me?

But God, in his gentle and patient way, showed me something I’ll never forget:
Just like any loving Father, he speaks to his children in different ways.

That truth didn’t come to me in a quiet, peaceful moment.
It came in the middle of grief.

In the days following the loss of my friend Beth, I felt like I was unraveling. Her passing shook me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Truthfully, I haven’t experienced much loss in my life, and the previous  times I did, I avoided it completely. I buried it in work, distraction—anything to not feel it.

And I was ready to do that again.

I had volunteered to help set up for a big church event that day. I remember walking in, focused on the task, already trying to outrun what I didn’t want to face. I was looking for one of the women from Bible study, but instead I found Pastor Rick.

He didn’t know how close Beth and I were.
He didn’t know what his words would do.

And just like that… everything stopped.

The news hit me harder than I expected, and I didn’t handle it well. My heart broke right there in that moment, and I remember feeling almost embarrassed by how deeply it affected me. I even felt bad for him—for being the one to say it out loud.

But still, I tried to pull it together. I told myself, just keep moving. Stay busy. Don’t feel it. Not now.

And that’s when God stepped in.

“Not today.”

Instead of continuing on with setup, I found myself walking into the Bible Study. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think about it. I was just… led there.

And within 30 minutes of hearing the news, I was sitting in a circle of women—crying, remembering, sharing stories about Beth. We spoke about her laughter, her kindness, the light she carried so effortlessly into every room.

There was so much pain in that room… but there was also so much love.

And somehow, in the middle of all that heartbreak, I felt held.

I went home that night still grieving, but no longer running from it. There was a peace I couldn’t explain—a quiet steadiness that told me I wasn’t alone in it.

The next morning, my dad sent me a YouTube song like he always does. Usually it’s something from Joe Bonamassa or Eric Clapton. But this time, it was “All My Tears Be Washed Away.”

What made it even more meaningful… he had no idea Beth had passed.

I just sat there, listening, and felt the weight of it. Not overwhelming—but comforting. Like a hand resting gently on my shoulder.

That was Him.

Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
But unmistakably present.

In the days that followed, the Lord didn’t take the grief away—but he walked me through it. He gave me space to feel it, but also surrounded me with exactly what I needed. He led me to Psalm 77, where sorrow and faith sit side by side—where questioning and remembering God’s goodness somehow coexist.

And little by little, I began to see it…

He had been speaking to me all along.

Through people.
Through timing.
Through songs I didn’t expect.
Through Scripture that met me exactly where I was.

As it says:

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” — John 10:27

He is always speaking.

I just wasn’t recognizing his voice because I was expecting it to sound different.

Now I understand—some of his children need the thunder.
Others… need the whisper.

And there is something so tender, so deeply personal, about being spoken to in a whisper.

So if you’re in a season where you feel like you can’t hear him…
maybe he’s not absent.

Maybe he’s just being gentle with you.

Slow down.
Be still.
Let yourself feel, instead of run.

You may find that in the quiet, in the spaces you once tried to avoid…

He’s been there the whole time.