When God Speaks Into the Silence

For nearly a year, every Holy Hour before the Blessed Sacrament followed a familiar rhythm. I would open my journal, pray, reflect, and write. Page by page, that journal became the birthplace of my book, Holy Grief. It quietly witnessed my questions, my tears, and countless moments of grace.

Then one day, the book was finished.

I closed the journal for the last time, grateful for all it had held. I couldn't bring myself to write in it again. It belonged to that season of my life—a season God had used to lead me through grief and into a deeper trust in Him.

A few days later, I stopped by my friend Jeni's gift shop and chose a new journal. It was simple and beautiful, its blank pages waiting to be filled. I assumed it would simply become the next place to record my thoughts during Adoration.

I had no idea that God already had its first page planned.

Not long afterward, I attended the noon Mass at St. Pius X Catholic Church. Because it was my usual day for Eucharistic Adoration, I felt a quiet invitation to remain after Mass and spend some time in their adoration chapel. Although I had prayed there before, my usual place of Adoration is my home parish of St. Joseph's.

I knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, opened my new journal... and stared at the blank page.

For nearly a year, I had always known what to write. My book had given each Holy Hour a direction. But now the manuscript was finished. There were no notes to organize, no chapters to revise, no reflections to capture.

For the first time in months, I had come to Adoration with nothing to write.

An unexpected emptiness settled over me. Old habits resurfaced—those earlier struggles to quiet my mind, to remain still before the Lord, to simply rest in His presence without needing to accomplish something.

Looking at Jesus in the monstrance, I whispered almost helplessly,

"Lord... what am I going to do now?"

An Unexpected Answer

As I sat there wondering what to write, I noticed a Bible tucked beneath the kneeler. Almost without thinking, I reached for it and opened it.

This isn't my usual way of praying with Scripture. I normally follow the daily Mass readings or a planned study. But that afternoon, I felt a quiet nudge simply to open God's Word and receive whatever He wished to show me.

My eyes fell on Nahum 1:1–8.

As I began to read, I stopped.

Earlier that very morning, my women's enrichment group had reflected on Luke 21:20–28. Jesus' discourse on the coming tribulation and the Son of Man. Although one passage came from the Old Testament and the other from the New, their message echoed one another so closely that I couldn't dismiss it as coincidence.

In that quiet chapel, I sensed the Lord gently reminding me that nothing He does is accidental.

The silence around me suddenly felt different. The faint hum of the air conditioner faded into the background. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, washing the pews with warm colors. I opened my new journal, touched my pen to its first blank page, and realized that God Himself had written the introduction before I ever could.

My first words were not notes for another book. They were a prayer.

Lord God, I know that nothing from You is an accident. The very message we reflected on this morning is the message You placed before me again here at Your feet. I know I still have much to learn about trusting You, whether the last day is far away or whether it comes today. Help me begin each day with You—in prayer, in Your Word, and in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Amen.

That afternoon, I filled only one page of my new journal. Yet it became the beginning of an entirely new chapter—not only in my writing, but in my walk with Christ.

It was the first prayer written in my new journal.

Not because I had planned it, but because God had.

An Invitation to Begin Again

As I remained in prayer, I noticed that my thoughts were no longer scattered. They were being gently gathered.

One by one, the Lord drew my heart back to the foundations of the Christian life. I found myself reflecting on the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, the works of mercy, the virtues, and passages from the Catechism that had shaped my faith over the years.

But this didn't feel like a lesson to master or a checklist to complete.

It felt like an invitation.

The Lord wasn't asking me to become someone new. He was inviting me to become more fully the woman He had been forming all along.

As I prayed, I realized that holiness isn't discovered by chasing extraordinary experiences. More often, it is found by faithfully living the ordinary things Christ has already taught us—loving God above all else, loving our neighbor, receiving the sacraments, practicing mercy, forgiving generously, and beginning again whenever we fall.

I sensed the Lord gently asking me not simply to finish writing a book, but to continue allowing Him to write His story in me.

That realization led me to reflect on a passage from the Catechism that says all creation bears a certain resemblance to its Creator. At first, I smiled at the thought because an unexpected image came to mind:

The image of a cat came quietly to mind.

It seemed like an odd comparison until I began thinking about the quiet way a cat approaches someone it loves. It doesn't force itself into your attention. It simply draws near—gently, patiently, almost silently.

In that moment, I wondered if God's invitations often come to us in much the same way.

He rarely shouts.

More often, He whispers.

He waits patiently for us to notice His presence, to quiet the noise around us, and to respond freely to His love.

Perhaps that is why silence is so important.

Only in the stillness do we begin to recognize the gentle movements of His grace that have been there all along.

I was reminded of something a priest once told me many years ago in confession:

"When it is hard to love someone, love them the way Jesus loves them."

Those simple words have stayed with me ever since.

But how can we love as Christ loves if we do not spend time with Him?

We cannot recognize His voice if we never become still enough to listen.

We cannot imitate His love if we rarely pause to receive it.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts of Eucharistic Adoration. It teaches us that prayer is not always about finding the right words. Sometimes it is simply about showing up, placing ourselves before the Lord, and allowing Him to do the speaking.

That afternoon, I entered the chapel wondering what I was supposed to do now that my book was finished.

I left with something far greater than another page of writing.

I left with the quiet assurance that God had not finished the work He was doing in me.

Since that day, I've come to realize that every ending in our spiritual lives is also a beginning. We finish one season only to discover that God is already inviting us into the next.

He does not ask us to have every answer.

He simply asks us to come.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Perhaps you've experienced something similar.

Maybe you've completed a chapter of your life—a season of grief, a ministry, a vocation, or even a dream. Perhaps you, too, have found yourself wondering, "Lord... what do I do now?"

If so, don't be afraid of the silence.

The silence may be the very place where God is preparing to speak.

A Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus,
Teach me to meet You in the stillness.
When I don't know what to say, remind me that I do not need perfect words to enter Your presence.
Help me quiet the noise around me so that I may recognize Your gentle invitations, trust Your providence, and follow wherever You lead.
When one chapter closes, give me the courage to place the next blank page into Your hands.
For I know that before I write a single word, You are already at work.
Amen.