GOD I can't hear you The Quiet Between the Calls
Zina stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen, the words “write the final chapter” hovering like a question mark over the empty page. The hum of the office—phones ringing, coworkers muttering about deadlines, the perpetual thrum of the building’s HVAC—filled every crevice of the open-plan room. She pressed her fingers to the side of her head as if she could quiet the world by sheer force of will.
“God, I can’t hear you,” she whispered under her breath, half‑laughing at herself. The phrase was old, a mantra she’d muttered in the dark of many sleepless nights, and now it felt absurdly out of place amid the clatter of spreadsheets and coffee makers. Still, the words slipped out, raw and unfiltered.
She stood, grabbing her coat and the thin paper bag of a half‑eaten sandwich. The street outside was a river of traffic, neon signs, and a sky that was more a smudge of gray than a horizon. In the distance, a billboard for a new meditation app flashed: “Find inner peace in 5 minutes.” She smirked. “Well, that’s what I need,” she thought, and slipped onto the sidewalk.
Every step was a negotiation with herself. Her phone buzzed—another message from a client needing an “urgent revision.” She stared at it, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety, the fear of missing a deadline, the need to prove she could control everything. The city’s noise pressed against her ears, and the inner voice that had been pleading, “God, I can’t hear you,” was nearly drowned out by the city’s own chorus.
She turned left onto a side street she barely knew. It was quieter there, lined with a row of old brick buildings whose windows were dark except for a flicker of candlelight in one. A handwritten sign hung above the doorway: St. Jude’s Quiet Room – No Phones, No Noise, No Distractions. She hesitated, then stepped inside.
The room smelled of cedar and incense. In the corner, a low wooden table bore a single, worn Bible, its pages yellowed at the edges. A lone chair faced a small stained‑glass window through which the late afternoon sun painted the floor in muted shades of amber. On the wall, a simple script read: “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Zina sank into the chair, pulled her phone from her pocket, and set it face‑down. The buzzing stopped. She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and tried to quiet the storm in her mind. The first few breaths were shallow, the anxiety still thudding like a heartbeat against a drum.
“Why am I hearing nothing?” she thought, the words turning into an echo. In her mind, the list of reasons she’d read in a blog a few weeks before surged forward: busyness, the constant stream of media, unresolved sin, fear of what He might say. She remembered the bullet points as if they were a script she’d been reciting for years:
Busyness and Distractions—the endless scroll of social media, the need to be “online” all the time.
Competing Voices—the internal critic, the fear that any message would demand a change she wasn’t ready for.
Fear of What He Might Say—the shame of confession, the terror of being called to a path that required sacrifice.
Lack of Spiritual Discipline—the neglect of prayer, the absence of Scripture.
Unresolved Sin—the hardened heart that kept her from fully surrendering.
Wrong Expectations—the myth of a booming voice or a dramatic sign.
She let each point settle, not as judgment but as a map of the terrain she had been navigating blindly. The quiet was not a void; it was a space where these thoughts could be examined, not suppressed.
Zina opened the Bible. Her fingers landed on a passage she’d seen countless times, yet never truly read: “My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” She blinked, a tear slipping down her cheek. The words were not a thunderclap; they were a gentle invitation.
She closed the book and turned her attention inward. The silence was still, but it was no longer empty. It was a canvas. She asked herself, not in desperation but in curiosity: “If I cannot hear you, perhaps I am not listening in the right way.” She let the question linger, feeling the subtle shift in the air, a faint warmth at the back of her throat, a quiet that seemed to say, I am here.
In that moment, Zina realized that God’s voice was not an external sound that required a microphone to capture. It was an inward whisper that required a still heart to receive. She remembered the advice she’d read: “Practice active listening; instead of only talking in prayer, take time to listen for a still, small voice or a sense of peace.” She breathed in that peace, an unfamiliar but reassuring calm that settled over her like a soft blanket.
The bell above the door jingled as a woman entered, her eyes scanning the room for a place to sit. Mira smiled, the first genuine smile in hours, and gestured to the empty chair. The woman sat, placed a small cross in her lap, and opened a notebook, writing silently.
Zina watched, feeling a sense of fellowship that transcended words. It was a reminder that she was not alone in this quest, that the act of seeking was itself a form of worship. As the sun slipped lower, the stained‑glass window threw a kaleidoscope of colors across the floor—amber, ruby, deep indigo—painting the room in divine mosaics.
When she finally rose to leave, Zina felt a shift in her step. The city outside still thrummed, but she no longer felt the need to drown it out. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, but this time, she set it to “Do Not Disturb.” She walked past the billboard advertising a five‑minute meditation app, now seeing it not as a quick fix, but as a reminder to pause, to breathe, to listen.
Back at her office, the cursor still blinked. She placed her hands on the keyboard, not to force words, but to allow them to flow. She wrote:
“God, I thought I was shouting into the void. I was deaf to the quiet that needed my stillness. In the silence, I found a whisper—not in the thunder of miracles, but in the peace that steadies a tired heart. I am learning to lean on you, even when I fall through the call. I will no longer chase loud signs but will sit in the quiet, trusting that you are already there, speaking in the language of stillness.”
She hit “save,” closed the document, and stood. The office lights hummed, but the world seemed a little less noisy, a little more spacious. As she walked to the kitchen for a glass of water, she felt a gentle tug at the back of her mind—a reminder that the divine conversation never truly ends; it merely shifts from the roar of the external to the hush of the internal.
And in that hush, Zina finally heard Him.
