There are seasons in life when God feels absent, when prayers seem to echo in empty rooms, and when the faith that once felt so certain becomes a question mark hanging over everything we thought we knew.
I'm writing this from one of those seasons.
The Silence That Speaks
For months now, I've been walking through what spiritual writers call "the dark night of the soul"—a period where the familiar comforts of faith feel distant and the presence of God seems hidden behind clouds I can't penetrate.
It started gradually. Prayers that once flowed easily became labored. Scripture that used to come alive on the page felt flat and lifeless. The sense of divine presence that had been my anchor began to feel like a memory from someone else's life.
At first, I fought it. I prayed harder, read more, attended every service, convinced that if I just tried harder, the connection would return. But the silence persisted, and I began to wonder if I had done something wrong, if my faith was somehow defective.
The Questions That Haunt
- In the quiet hours, the questions come:
- Is God really there, or have I been talking to myself all along?
- If God is love, why does love sometimes feel so absent?
- What if everything I've built my life on is just wishful thinking?
These aren't comfortable questions for someone who has spent years in faith communities, who has found identity in being a "believer." But I'm learning that doubt isn't the opposite of faith—it's often faith's most honest expression.
The Desert Fathers' Wisdom
I've been reading about the Desert Fathers, those early Christian mystics who went into the wilderness seeking God. What strikes me is how many of them wrote about periods of spiritual dryness, times when God felt absent and prayer felt impossible.
They called it "acedia"—a spiritual listlessness, a sense of being abandoned by the divine. But rather than seeing it as failure, they understood it as part of the journey, a necessary stripping away of false comforts to make room for a deeper encounter with the sacred.
Faith as Choice, Not Feeling
Mother Teresa's private letters revealed that she experienced decades of spiritual darkness, feeling abandoned by the God she served so faithfully. Yet she continued to love, to serve, to show up day after day.
Her example is teaching me that faith isn't primarily about feeling God's presence—it's about choosing to live as if love is real, even when we can't feel it. It's about acting with compassion when our hearts feel empty, about serving others when we're not sure anyone is listening to our prayers.
The Sacred in Suffering
There's something profound happening in this darkness that I'm only beginning to understand. The faith that emerges from seasons of doubt is different from the faith that has never been tested. It's less certain but more authentic, less comfortable but more compassionate.
When we've walked through our own valleys of shadow, we can sit with others in theirs without trying to fix or explain away their pain. We can offer presence instead of platitudes, companionship instead of quick answers.
The God of the Gaps
I used to think faith meant having all the answers, being able to explain God's ways and defend divine goodness in the face of suffering. Now I'm learning that faith might be more about being comfortable with mystery, about trusting in love even when we can't understand its methods.
Maybe God isn't found in the gaps of our knowledge but in the gaps of our certainty—in the spaces where we have to choose trust over understanding, hope over despair, love over fear.
Prayers Without Words
My prayers have changed in this season. They're less about asking for things and more about simply showing up, sitting in the silence, and trusting that somehow, in ways I can't comprehend, this matters.
Sometimes prayer is just breathing. Sometimes it's crying. Sometimes it's the decision to get up and love someone when everything in you wants to stay in bed.
I'm learning that God might be less interested in our eloquent words and more interested in our honest hearts. The prayers that feel most real now are the ones that begin with "I don't know" and end with "but I'm here."
The Faith That Remains
What remains when everything else falls away? When the feelings fade and the certainties crumble, what's left?
Love remains. The impulse to care for others, to seek justice, to create beauty, to hope for healing—these things persist even when I can't explain why or where they come from.
Maybe this is faith: not the absence of doubt, but the presence of love in spite of doubt. Not the certainty of answers, but the willingness to keep asking questions. Not the feeling of God's presence, but the choice to live as if love is the deepest truth of the universe.
The Dawn That Comes
I don't know when this season will end. I don't know if the feelings will return or if faith will always require this kind of daily choosing. But I'm beginning to suspect that this darkness isn't punishment—it's preparation.
Perhaps God is teaching me to love without reward, to serve without recognition, to believe without proof. Perhaps this is what mature faith looks like: not the absence of questions, but the courage to live beautifully in the midst of them.
In the silence, I'm learning to listen differently. In the darkness, I'm discovering new ways to see. And in the doubt, I'm finding a faith that's more honest, more humble, and somehow more real than anything I've known before.
The God who feels absent might be more present than ever, working in ways too deep for feeling, too mysterious for understanding, too loving for our small definitions of love.
And that, perhaps, is enough.