Stillness, and the God Who Meets Us There
“Be still, and know that I am God!
I am exalted among the nations;
I am exalted in the earth.”
—Psalm 46:10, NRSVUE
The very first thing that happens when I become still
is that I remember to breathe.
Then order returns;
chaos loosens its grip.
I feel myself breathe—
really breathing.
From there, I can do almost anything,
including failing gracefully
and falling into imperfection.
That matters,
because when I forget to breathe,
I often try to make up for those lost breaths
through perfectionism.
The call to stillness
is a call to salvation from that—
and from the version of myself
that forgets I am God’s beloved daughter.
As I begin this year,
God is asking me to embrace joy.
Joy has often been elusive to me.
I catch glimpses of it
when I live like no one is watching,
when I notice the life in and around me.
In those moments,
I may break out in song or dance,
or simply look at the trees—
helping me breathe in the stuff of life.
Those tiny trees,
those majestic trees,
those beautiful trees
take in what we cannot
and return something glorious.
God’s handiwork.
God’s blessing to us humans.
Stillness reveals
what constant motion keeps hidden
by awakening curiosity about life.
In stillness,
I notice the little boy smiling at me
in the grocery line
and then wonder
what his mother is thinking.
Sometimes I ask,
and the answer surprises me.
She needed to talk to another adult
as much as I did.
We don’t exchange phone numbers,
but the moment we shared
is never lost.
Stillness invites silence
as a daily studio with God.
The moment silence takes root,
I can hear God more clearly.
It’s not about external noise—
I can still hear cars passing by
and birds singing.
The silence is about the part of me
that doesn’t want to hear God,
usually because of fear.
In silence,
I hear the still, small voice
well enough to say yes:
yes to the next adventure,
yes to the words begging for my attention,
yes to the character who has a story to tell,
yes to the sermon searching for a vessel,
and yes to the prayer
for the loved one—
or the not-so-loved one—
who comes to mind.
In the quiet,
God’s love booms
like African drums
set to the cadence of my heartbeat.
In the quiet,
God’s presence overrides
what once seemed impossible to overcome.
In the quiet,
the storm sounds
like soft rain
or distant thunder.
In the quiet,
I am known and accepted—
flaws and all.
In the stillness,
trust comes easier,
faith expands,
and life becomes more
than I dare ask, think, or imagine.
In the stillness,
God is not distant.
God is near,
and I feel Immanuel moving
through a surrendered vessel—
one who no longer fears
sacrificing too much,
because surrender has become obedience.
When the noise settles,
I trust I AM to step in,
and I learn—
again and again—
how to decrease.