When Pain Becomes Your Prayer
Do you ever feel like your body has become a battlefield instead of the temple it's supposed to be? I certainly do. As someone who wrestles daily with chronic illness, I've learned that some mornings the greatest act of faith is simply swinging my legs out of bed and placing my feet on the floor.
Yesterday was one of those days. The pain in my back, neck, and shoulders had me practically immobilized, and as I struggled to type out a few sentences, I found myself staring at the ceiling and asking the age-old question: "God, what are You doing?" It's a question I've asked more times than I care to admit, usually through tears and with a hefty dose of frustration thrown in for good measure.
For years, I approached my chronic pain like it was an enemy to be defeated, something standing between me and the "real" ministry God had called me to do. I prayed for healing. I begged for relief.
When God Feels Silent
Have you ever felt like you're praying into a void? You cry out to God, begging for wisdom, direction, comfort—for anything—and all you get in return is silence. The heavens feel like brass. Your prayers seem to bounce off the ceiling and fall flat at your feet. You wonder if God has forgotten you, if He's too busy dealing with someone else's crisis, or worse yet, if He simply doesn't care.
If you're nodding your head right now, friend, I understand. I've been there. In fact, I've been there more times than I'd like to admit. There are seasons when God's voice seems so clear that I can almost audibly hear Him speaking to my heart. And then there are those dry, difficult seasons when it feels like He's packed His bags and moved to another galaxy entirely.
But here's what I'm learning: God's silence doesn't equal God's absence.
Hidden Cobwebs
Cleaning the chapels here in Wales is no easy feat. Honestly, it's downright frustrating at times! These old buildings seem to be home to a multitude of spiders that spin their webs day after day, resulting in a scene that resembles something from a scary movie, with elaborate cobwebs stretched across every surface. Every. Single. Surface.
The trickiest part about cleaning is that you can only see the webs when the light hits them just right. And since we have so little sunlight in Wales (let me tell you, the sun is a rare and precious commodity here), you can think you've gotten them all, only to have a ray of sunshine stream through the window and illuminate an elaborate web in the very area you just cleaned. I was literally standing there with my duster, feeling quite proud of myself, when suddenly the sun decided to make an appearance and reveal my failure. There, right where I'd just cleaned, was a massive cobweb I'd completely missed.
Tasting God’s Word, Not Just Checking Boxes
Yup, I've been guilty of it. I sit down with my Bible and reading plan, determined to knock out my chapters for the day. I glance at the clock, calculate how much time I have, and speed-read through the passages like I'm cramming for a test. Check, check, check. Done. Box ticked. Gold star earned. But when I close my Bible, I can't remember a single thing I just read.
Sound familiar?
There's a surge of Bible reading happening right now. Millions of people are starting 2026 with the intention of reading Scripture more faithfully. Bible sales rose 11% in 2025, with more than 18 million Bibles sold. Weekly Bible reading is at its highest level in 15 years. This is wonderful news! But I'm concerned that maybe we've turned Bible reading into another item on our to-do list instead of what it truly is: an invitation to encounter the Living God.
Carrying Light, Not Load
Yesterday, during my Bible study on animals in Scripture, I was certain the donkey would teach me a lesson about stubbornness. After all, isn't that what donkeys are famous for? But God had something entirely different and far more beautiful in store for me.
As I studied the account of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, it hit me like a thunderbolt. That little donkey wasn't chosen because of what he could carry but because of who he would carry. He wasn't meant to haul heavy burdens. He was meant to carry the Light of the World. And here's where it gets personal: we're just like that donkey.
How many times have I trudged through my days feeling like a pack mule, weighed down by worry, responsibility, and those endless "what-ifs" that plague my thoughts? I've rounded my shoulders under the weight of "should-haves" and stumbled over obligations that were never mine to bear. I've been so busy carrying the load that I forgot I was meant to carry the Light.