There’s a sacred hush that settles over the soul when life slows down. Sometimes it happens by choice, like when you finally take that long-overdue vacation or wake early just to listen to a bird’s song.. Other times, it arrives uninvited, through grief, illness, transition, or a life change you didn’t ask for. Regardless of how it comes, quiet can feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable. We’re used to filling our lives with sound, motion, deadlines, and distractions. But what if the silence isn’t emptiness at all? What if it’s actually an invitation?
Scripture reminds us that when Elijah sought to hear the voice of God, it didn’t come in the wind, fire, or earthquake, but in a still, small voice. That voice still speaks today, but hearing it requires space, intention, and stillness. In our fast-paced world, silence can feel like stagnation. But often, it’s during these quiet seasons that the deepest growth occurs, not growth others can see, but the kind that transforms us from the inside out. It’s when roots deepen. It’s when our identity is clarified. It’s when faith shifts from being something we say to something we truly live.
There’s a kind of quiet bravery in trusting God when the answers haven’t come. When the plans fall apart. When prayer feels like a whisper into a void. When you don’t feel in control, or maybe realize you never really were. In Where Moonflowers Dance, Ray’s journey through loss, healing, and unexpected love mirrors this process. Her faith isn’t flashy or perfect, but personal and persistent. Like many of us, Ray doesn’t find God in big mountaintop moments. She finds Him in the quiet: tending a garden, walking the beach, letting a dog named Journey into her life, and slowly letting her heart reopen. Her story reminds us that God may not always change our circumstances immediately, but He always uses them to change us.
If you find yourself in a season of stillness, whether you’ve left a job, ended a relationship, moved to a new place, or are simply standing still and unsure what’s next, know that this isn’t punishment. It might actually be preparation. Begin where you are. Start small. Plant something, even if it’s just hope. Take a walk without your phone. Write a letter to God or even to your past self. Sit in the sunshine and let it warm more than your skin. Healing doesn’t have to be loud. It can be soft. Quiet. Gentle. And deeply spiritual.
One of the greatest lessons we often miss is that faith is not just belief; it’s a relationship. God isn’t distant. He isn’t just watching us from above; He’s walking with us, especially in the stillness. And He often shows up through people, the friend who brings dinner, the neighbor who offers a knowing smile, the stranger who becomes family. These human connections are sacred. They are often how God reaches our hearts. Faith, when we let it, doesn’t isolate us. It reconnects us to God, to ourselves, and to one another.
So if you’re in a quiet season, don’t rush through it. Rest in it. Listen to it. There may be no thunderous answer. But there may be a whisper. And that whisper could change everything.