The ache came quietly.
It wasn’t an offense. Nothing egregious. No rebellion or storm of doubt. Just a slow drift. The kind of distance you don’t notice until the silence becomes louder than the prayers you’re not praying. And one day, you sit alone, Bible on your lap, worship playing softly… and you wonder, What happened to the closeness I used to feel with God?
Maybe you’ve felt that too.
It’s one of the loneliest ironies in the life of faith—that you can walk with the Lord and still, at times, feel oceans apart from Him. That even as you press into routines of devotion, the warmth of His presence can feel strangely absent. David must have felt it too when he cried out in Psalm 42:5, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.”
Notice the struggle? The heaviness? It’s not a theological crisis—it’s a heart one.
There’s something comforting about that verse. David doesn’t skip to the resolution; he names the ache. He feels the fog of distance, and yet he talks to his soul like a friend who’s lost their way. Why are you like this? Don’t forget God. It’s both raw and gentle. A holy remembering in moments of forgetting.
This is where grace whispers: Your faith isn’t broken because your feelings dried up.
God never promised our emotions would always cooperate with truth. But He did promise something far more secure. In Isaiah 41:10, God says, “Do not fear, for I am with you... I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
Notice the order: I am with you. Then I will help you. Presence before action. Assurance before outcome.
Feelings may fluctuate, but presence doesn't. You may not sense the warmth, but that doesn’t mean the fire is gone. The embers of faith still glow, even when wrapped in ash. And God’s nearness doesn’t depend on your awareness of Him—it depends on His character.
James 4:8 brings a beautiful invitation: “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” It’s not a demand. It’s a door. We don’t have to perform or pretend. We return with whatever faith we have (even if it’s threadbare), and the God of the universe leans in close.
I remember once, years ago, sitting in church with tears I couldn’t explain. Not because of a moving sermon or a powerful song, but because I felt… nothing. Numb. Distant. And in that silence, I sensed the Spirit saying—not audibly, but undeniably—I’m still here. It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded me: God doesn’t leave when feelings fade.
Maybe that’s something you need to hear too.
There are days when you won’t feel the closeness. Days when worship songs fall flat, and reading Scripture feels dusty. But those aren’t signs of failure; they’re invitations to press in. Not to earn closeness, but to remember it.
The soul’s dryness isn’t always proof of distance. Sometimes it’s the God-given thirst that reminds us where living water flows.
So talk to your soul like David did. Question the ache, but don’t stop there. Preach to your own heart the truth your mind still knows: You will yet praise Him. Not because your emotions are flawless, but because His faithfulness is.
God is not a vapor that drifts when the atmosphere shifts. He is a Rock. Unmoved. Unshaken.
When you feel far from Him, He hasn’t moved.
And maybe, in this season, faith is less about feeling His nearness—and more about trusting that He is near, even when you don’t.
That’s not denial. That’s devotion.
Sometimes the strongest act of faith is whispered through cracked lips in the middle of a dry spell: You’re still my God. I will yet praise You.
So if your heart is quiet right now… if the warmth has faded and the sky feels closed—don’t panic. Don’t assume God has turned away. You’re not the first to feel this way, and you won’t be the last.
Draw near with what you have, even if it’s just a whisper and a want.
His love will meet you there. Every. Single. Time.
Because He’s still here. And He still holds.
The ache came quietly.
It wasn’t an offense. Nothing egregious. No rebellion or storm of doubt. Just a slow drift. The kind of distance you don’t notice until the silence becomes louder than the prayers you’re not praying. And one day, you sit alone, Bible on your lap, worship playing softly… and you wonder, What happened to the closeness I used to feel with God?
Maybe you’ve felt that too.
It’s one of the loneliest ironies in the life of faith—that you can walk with the Lord and still, at times, feel oceans apart from Him. That even as you press into routines of devotion, the warmth of His presence can feel strangely absent. David must have felt it too when he cried out in Psalm 42:5, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.”
Notice the struggle? The heaviness? It’s not a theological crisis—it’s a heart one.
There’s something comforting about that verse. David doesn’t skip to the resolution; he names the ache. He feels the fog of distance, and yet he talks to his soul like a friend who’s lost their way. Why are you like this? Don’t forget God. It’s both raw and gentle. A holy remembering in moments of forgetting.
This is where grace whispers: Your faith isn’t broken because your feelings dried up.
God never promised our emotions would always cooperate with truth. But He did promise something far more secure. In Isaiah 41:10, God says, “Do not fear, for I am with you... I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
Notice the order: I am with you. Then I will help you. Presence before action. Assurance before outcome.
Feelings may fluctuate, but presence doesn't. You may not sense the warmth, but that doesn’t mean the fire is gone. The embers of faith still glow, even when wrapped in ash. And God’s nearness doesn’t depend on your awareness of Him—it depends on His character.
James 4:8 brings a beautiful invitation: “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” It’s not a demand. It’s a door. We don’t have to perform or pretend. We return with whatever faith we have (even if it’s threadbare), and the God of the universe leans in close.
I remember once, years ago, sitting in church with tears I couldn’t explain. Not because of a moving sermon or a powerful song, but because I felt… nothing. Numb. Distant. And in that silence, I sensed the Spirit saying—not audibly, but undeniably—I’m still here. It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded me: God doesn’t leave when feelings fade.
Maybe that’s something you need to hear too.
There are days when you won’t feel the closeness. Days when worship songs fall flat, and reading Scripture feels dusty. But those aren’t signs of failure; they’re invitations to press in. Not to earn closeness, but to remember it.
The soul’s dryness isn’t always proof of distance. Sometimes it’s the God-given thirst that reminds us where living water flows.
So talk to your soul like David did. Question the ache, but don’t stop there. Preach to your own heart the truth your mind still knows: You will yet praise Him. Not because your emotions are flawless, but because His faithfulness is.
God is not a vapor that drifts when the atmosphere shifts. He is a Rock. Unmoved. Unshaken.
When you feel far from Him, He hasn’t moved.
And maybe, in this season, faith is less about feeling His nearness—and more about trusting that He is near, even when you don’t.
That’s not denial. That’s devotion.
Sometimes the strongest act of faith is whispered through cracked lips in the middle of a dry spell: You’re still my God. I will yet praise You.
So if your heart is quiet right now… if the warmth has faded and the sky feels closed—don’t panic. Don’t assume God has turned away. You’re not the first to feel this way, and you won’t be the last.
Draw near with what you have, even if it’s just a whisper and a want.
His love will meet you there. Every. Single. Time.
Because He’s still here. And He still holds.
