Amazing Grace, How Silent the Sound

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Amazing grace, how silent the sound. No, I don’t hear a thing. It’s like He’s gone and left me here to fight this on my own.

I used to believe I could hear Him. Not in a loud, obvious way. But in the quiet. In the peace that didn’t make sense. In the feeling that I wasn’t alone. In the small moments where everything seemed to line up just enough.There was something there. Or at least, it felt like there was.

Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Empty quiet. The kind that makes you question everything you once believed.

I try to pray, but it feels like my words don’t go anywhere. Like they hit the ceiling and fall back down. Like I’m talking into nothing. I wait for comfort. For a sign. For a feeling. For anything. But there’s just silence.

And the silence is loud. Louder than any answer. Because at least an answer - even a hard one - would mean something is there. But this? This feels like absence. Like being left.

Amazing grace, how silent the sound. Because I don’t feel saved right now. I feel tired. I feel lost. I feel like I’m fighting things I don’t understand, with no sense that anyone is beside me in it.

And then the thoughts come. The ones I don’t want to admit out loud. The ones that sit quietly underneath everything else. What if I’m not worth saving? What if He’s silent because of me? What if I’ve done something wrong? What if I’m too broken, too far gone, too much? It’s a dangerous place for the mind to go. But when all you’re met with is silence, you start looking for reasons. And somehow, it always turns back on you.

People say, “He’s always with you.” But what do you do when you don’t feel that? When the reassurance doesn’t land? When the words feel distant from your actual experience?

I don’t hear Him. I don’t feel Him. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because faith is supposed to feel like something, isn’t it? It’s supposed to bring comfort. It’s supposed to bring peace. But right now, it feels like I’m holding onto something I can’t see, can’t hear, and can’t feel.

Maybe this is what doubt looks like. Or maybe this is what pain does. Maybe it drowns everything out. Even the things you once held onto the most.

There’s a part of me that wonders if He’s still there and I just can’t feel it. That maybe the silence isn’t rejection. That maybe it isn’t about my worth. That maybe I’m just too overwhelmed, too exhausted, too consumed by everything in my own mind to recognise Him. But that thought is fragile. It’s hard to hold onto when everything feels so quiet.

Because the louder voice still asks: Why would He stay silent if I mattered? Why would I feel this alone if I was being held?

I don’t have answers. I don’t have clarity. All I have is this silence. And the ache that comes with it.

Amazing grace, how silent the sound. I wish I could hear it. I wish I could feel it. I wish I knew - without doubt - that I wasn’t alone, that I was still worth saving, that I hadn’t somehow been forgotten.

But right now, all I have is the quiet. And the smallest, most fragile hope - that silence doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned. That maybe, somehow, even here, I am still being held, even if I can’t feel it.

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