I have come to realize that my kind of prayer does not always look like prayer.
It doesn’t always involve folded hands, closed eyes, or a list of things I want God to fix. Sometimes there are no words at all.
Sometimes I simply sit.
I become quiet.
And I listen.
For much of my life, I thought prayer was primarily about talking to God. I would ask. I would thank. I would confess. I would seek guidance. And there is nothing wrong with any of that. Jesus himself taught his followers to pray.
But somewhere along my journey, I began to wonder:
What if prayer is not only about what I say to God, but also about becoming quiet enough to notice what God may be saying to me?
That changed prayer for me.
My meditation with God is not about emptying my mind and escaping life. It is almost the opposite. I become still enough to face life more honestly.
I sit in silence and allow the noise to settle.
The noise of yesterday.
The anxiety about tomorrow.
The opinions of other people.
The stories I have been telling myself.
The excuses.
The resentments.
The things I think I already know.
And underneath all of that noise, I sometimes find something different.
A thought comes.
A realization.
A question I hadn’t considered.
A conviction.
A memory.
A sense that I need to apologize.
A person I suddenly realize I need to forgive.
Something I have been avoiding becomes impossible to ignore.
Sometimes an answer appears that I wasn’t looking for.
I don’t automatically call every thought God.
That would be dangerous.
My mind is capable of producing fear, ego, anger, fantasy, and self-deception just as easily as it can produce wisdom.
So I have learned to test what comes to me.
Does it make me more loving?
More humble?
More truthful?
More responsible?
More forgiving?
Does it move me toward the way Jesus taught me to live?
Or does it make me feel superior, justified, angry, afraid, or entitled?
Because perhaps the question isn’t simply, “Did God give me this thought?”
Perhaps the better question is:
“What is this thought producing in me?”
Jesus said that we know a tree by its fruit.
Maybe that applies to our inner life too.
I believe God can speak through Scripture. I believe God can speak through other people. I believe God can speak through circumstances and through the quiet conviction of conscience.
And I believe God can meet us in the silence.
Not necessarily with a booming voice.
Not necessarily with supernatural fireworks.
Sometimes with something much quieter.
A realization that feels like light entering a dark room.
A truth I suddenly recognize that I had been resisting for years.
A question that won’t leave me alone.
A peace that arrives without an explanation.
A conviction that says, “You already know what you need to do.”
Maybe that is why silence can be uncomfortable.
When everything around me becomes quiet, I lose some of my favorite places to hide.
I can’t blame the noise.
I can’t blame the television.
I can’t blame my phone.
I can’t blame somebody else’s opinion.
I am left alone with myself.
And perhaps that is where God meets me.
Not because God was absent before I became quiet, but because I finally became quiet enough to notice.
Jesus repeatedly withdrew from the crowds.
He went away to solitary places.
He prayed alone.
There is something profound about that.
Jesus didn’t seem afraid of silence.
Maybe because silence isn’t necessarily emptiness.
Maybe silence is a place of encounter.
This is what connecting with God within has come to mean for me.
I don’t mean that I am God.
I don’t mean that every feeling inside me is divine.
I mean that I believe the presence of God can be encountered within the deepest part of us, where conscience, truth, love, surrender, and transformation meet.
Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is within you.”
I don’t want that statement to become merely a theological argument for me.
I want to experience the invitation.
Look within.
What is happening inside you?
What needs to die?
What needs to be surrendered?
What needs to be forgiven?
What truth have you been avoiding?
Where are you resisting love?
Where are you allowing your ego to lead?
Where are you being called to become different?
That is why my prayer has become less about trying to get God to change my circumstances and more about allowing God to change me.
I don’t sit in silence waiting for God to give me everything I want.
I sit in silence trying to become willing to receive whatever truth I need.
Sometimes that truth is uncomfortable.
Sometimes the revelation isn’t, “Everything is going to be okay.”
Sometimes it is:
“You’re wrong.”
“You need to apologize.”
“Let it go.”
“Stop blaming them.”
“Forgive yourself.”
“Forgive them.”
“You already know what you need to do.”
“Love them anyway.”
And sometimes the answer is simply:
“Be still.”
This has become my kind of prayer.
Not because I have figured out some secret method of communicating with God.
But because I am learning that prayer can be a posture of receptivity.
I speak.
Then I listen.
I ask.
Then I become still.
I surrender.
Then I pay attention.
And when something rises within me, I don’t immediately declare, “God told me.”
I examine it.
I test it.
I bring it back to the teachings of Jesus.
And then, perhaps most importantly, I live it.
Because what good is a revelation that never becomes transformation?
What good is a beautiful thought about forgiveness if I continue holding the grudge?
What good is an insight about love if I continue treating people poorly?
What good is hearing God if I refuse to obey what I believe I heard?
Maybe the deepest form of prayer is not what happens while I’m sitting in silence.
Maybe it is what happens after I get up.
I sit with God.
I listen.
I receive.
I discern.
And then I walk back into my life and try to live differently.
That is my meditation.
That is my prayer.
That is how I am learning to connect with God within.
Not by escaping the world, but by becoming more awake to the God who is calling me to live differently within it.
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