The table, the glow, the silence
The house was quiet, finally.
Not the kind of quiet that feels relaxing, but the kind that hums with expectation.
The kind you earn after bedtime routines, dishes, and a full day of being everything to everyone.
I sat at a little fold-out table, laptop open, outline nearby, the screen glowing faintly in the dark room. It was late—ten, maybe eleven—but that’s when I wrote.
That’s when I believed I was doing something holy.
Something obedient.
I had this book in me—The Fruit of the Spirit—and I felt like I was supposed to write it.
So I showed up, night after night, while everyone else slept.
But the words didn’t always come.
When effort meets fog
Sometimes I just sat there—tired, uncertain, whispering little prayers, scrolling through other people’s posts that seemed to know exactly how to inspire, how to grow, how to “move in purpose.”
I tried that too.
I posted on LinkedIn. I crafted content. I built outlines and captions and planned my way into clarity.
But it didn’t land. Not the way I hoped.
It wasn’t failure. But it didn’t feel like favor either.
And that was hard to name.
Because I wasn’t being lazy. I wasn’t ignoring God.
I was showing up. Obeying, even.
But it felt like I kept walking into fog.
And after enough fog, you start to wonder if maybe you were never meant to walk this way at all.
When asking doesn’t echo
I’ve asked God for clarity more times than I can count.
I talked about that in the last post—how I keep asking, keep searching, keep wanting Him to confirm again what I already believe He said.
But here’s the tension:
What do you do when the asking doesn’t stir a response?
What do you do when God doesn’t answer the way you hoped—not with a yes, not with a no, but with silence?
Filling the silence with strategy
That’s when I started overdoing.
If I couldn’t hear from God, maybe I could just figure it out myself.
So instead of writing, I researched. Deeply. Obsessively.
I studied platform growth, book deals, brand strategy, niche language, content calendars, writing courses, publishing options—anything to feel like I was still moving forward.
And I planned. And rearranged. And reworded.
Because if I couldn’t control the outcome, at least I could control the process.
Have you done that, too?
Not just waited—but busied yourself while waiting.
Hoping movement might feel like progress.
Hoping doing something might drown out the quiet.
I wasn’t trying to be disobedient.
But I was trying to compensate—for the quiet, for the doubt, for the aching feeling that maybe I was falling short.
The slow retreat
Eventually, I stopped writing.
Not all at once. Just slowly.
The outline stayed untouched.
The fold-out table stayed folded.
I told myself I was “waiting for better timing,” but underneath it—I was shrinking.
Not because I didn’t believe in the work.
But because I didn’t feel adequate without the affirmation.
Without the clarity.
Without the sense that I was doing it “right.”
The man who waited well
And then I remembered Simeon.
The man in Scripture who was told he would see the Messiah before he died.
He wasn’t a prophet, a king, or a writer.
He didn’t build anything.
His assignment?
Wait.
Show up.
Be ready to recognize.
And that’s exactly what he did.
He waited. For years.
No follow-up. No reminders. No new instruction.
But he stayed the course.
Not passively, but faithfully.
He didn’t demand constant confirmation. He trusted the original word.
And when the moment finally came—when Mary and Joseph brought Jesus into the temple—he didn’t miss it.
That story softened something in me.
And maybe it speaks to you, too.
What if the silence isn’t disapproval?
I don’t know what kind of silence you might be sitting in right now—whether it’s creative, personal, spiritual, or something else entirely.
But if you’re anything like me, the absence of direction can feel like a closed door.
But what if it isn’t?
What if the silence isn’t a sign that we’ve done something wrong…
but a quiet reminder to stay steady?
Simeon wasn’t rebuked for not doing more.
He was honored for continuing to do what he’d been given.
So maybe we don’t need a new word.
Maybe we just need to stay close enough to remember the last one.
Maybe this is still obedience
Maybe the silence doesn’t mean stop.
Maybe it means stay.
Stay faithful.
Stay rooted.
Stay the course.
Not because we feel confident.
But because we were asked to begin—and that’s still enough of a reason to continue.
Maybe we’re not waiting for new instructions.
Maybe we’re being called to walk out the last ones—quietly, gently, and without applause.
And maybe—just maybe—we’re supposed to create anyway.
Even in the silence.
Even when it’s not working the way we hoped.
The still, small voice
Because God doesn’t always move in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire.
Sometimes, He speaks in a whisper.
A still, small voice.
The kind you only hear when the house is quiet, the lights are low, and your heart is still enough to lean in.
So let’s learn not to resent the silence.
Let’s treat it like a presence.
Like something holy.
Like God isn’t far off—He’s just closer than we realized.
Lord, help me trust You in the quiet.
Where might silence be growing something sacred in your life?
🕊 Blog #5 of 16: When God Doesn’t Answer the Way I Hoped
This post is part of the Maybe I’m Supposed to Create Anyway series.
Take a breath. You don’t have to rush to the next thing. You can stay here for a moment—held, seen, and not alone.
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