When God Goes Quiet
What do we do on days when God seems entirely absent? Some thoughts about where I see that in my life today and, looking back, recognising how much has changed.
A Field and a Reminder
Last weekend, I took the dogs for a walk around a field near our house. I consider this space 'my field' because I walk there so regularly. It's become a place where I can process, think, reflect, and pray. If you follow me on Instagram, you'll have probably seen the photos. One of the things that I love about this field is that on a very regular basis I see red kites flying overhead. More or less every time I go to my field, I see at least one, if not half a dozen of these beautiful birds of prey, soaring overhead.
Why is this so thrilling? Because for me, for some reason I cannot explain, they remind me of God's presence. His goodness. And His love for me.
When I was a child, kites were relatively rare, and there was a big effort to reintroduce them to Britain and increase their population. Seeing them as a child was exhilirating. The avian equivalent of yellow car. It only happened occasionally. I remember my dad pointing them out and teaching me to identify them from the curve of the tail and the white marks on their wings. Now, as an adult, I see them all the time. So much so, that when I'm out I pretty much only have to think about a red kite, and I usually see one. Remarkably regular reminders that God is with me!
But last weekend I took the dogs out after it had been raining. It was a muddy, bleak, and grey winter's day (and there have been a lot of them this year). I had my thick winter coat on, complete with scarf, hat, gloves, and, as is obligatory, my wellies. I was also full of cold. My head was swimming and I really wanted to be wrapped up inside. As I trudged through the field with the dogs having a great time in the brush and the mud, I looked up and watched the birds. Was God with me?
There was not one, single, red kite in the sky. There were crows. There was a jackdaw or two. Oddly, even a seagull.
But not one red kite. Which got me thinking: what do we do with days like this? When God's presence and His goodness seems pretty absent?
A Different Field in a Different Time
On mulling over these questions, I was reminded of a different field, 15 years ago, where I was asking a not unrelated question. Back then, I was in a field in the east midlands of England (think Robin Hood territory), asking a similar question from a very different perspective. It wasn't windy and cold that day, but internally it was an everlasting winter. I was in a very dark place. There was no sense that God was a God of goodness and blessing at all and nothing felt certain. 15 years ago, I asked God in that field, 'If you love me, why does your love feel like hate?'
Every day seemed hopeless. God's goodness? More or less entirely absent. There was no sense of the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel.' I'd seen enough in the past to know that God was likely somewhere. But the situation I was in felt nightmareish. And those past experiences felt very disconnected from what I was facing. One of the scriptures that saw me through that time was a verse from Job 30:20. "I cry to you and you do not answer me; I stand, and you merely look at me." In the book, Job has lost family, health and wealth and continuing to resist the temptations of his 'friends' to blame his suffering on his sin. Job instead complains to God. But God is silent. Which was also how God seemed to me: entirely absent. I didn't know what was going on and nothing made sense.
All those years ago, I was longing for a single day of sunshine. The spiritual equivalent of just one red kite. I held on, I didn't know the way and I wasn't sure how change was possible. [Sometimes my stubborness has been useful.] Mercifully, I had a community of lovely people who held space for me and prayed with me, when I had no words.
A Slow Dawn
Eventually, very slowly, after difficult wrestling and decisions, dawn emerged. Slowly, steadily. In all kinds of ways. Spiritual work is hard work. There were lots of angry prayers, which puts me in good company with the Psalms and various other biblical passages. There was the work of voicing the things inside that most of us would really rather ignore. Spiritual work is laboursome work. Doing what I could, when I could. Keeping on moving forward, even when I wasn't sure why. Dawn came. I was on silent retreat at Taize, in the south of France, when in prayer I encountered what I can only describe as the presence of the risen Christ, kneeling before me. He was reaching out his hand and saying the words Jesus said to his disciples on the sea of Galilee in Matthew 14:27: ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’ The disciples were out fishing in a storm and Jesus came to them, walking on the water. They feared for their lives. When they saw Jesus they assumed he was a ghost. But there He was. And I wept.
In ways that I cannot really sum on a blog, I realised he had been there all along, right in the heart of the storm. I could never have seen it or understood it. Yet that's where he was.
Fast-forward to my walk on a dreary weekend in 2026 and an absence of red kites. Today most days are sunny and only occasionally does God seem absent. Words cannot really capture not just the gratitude but the miracle of seeing what God has done. And I know that even if I found myself in a similar dark place this week, month, or even for a lengthy season, I know that light will come into darkness. I know that even if it doesn't feel like it, seem like it, and experience points in the other direction: God really is good. I do not always understand Him or His ways. I have many questions for when we come face-to-face, but He has not forgotten me. Light will dawn. Red kites will soar.
If you're in the endless tunnel of darkness: you are not alone. There are no easy fixes. There's no magic cure. The saints throughout history know this. But hold on. It might seem ludicrously impossible and implausible to say: but the best is yet to come.
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Photo by Doncoombez on Unsplash
