When the Noise Fades: Listening for the Gentle Whisper of God

There’s a kind of stillness that only comes after the unraveling.

For months, maybe longer, I’ve been moving through a foggy season—a quiet ache, a restlessness that tugs at the edges of everything familiar. My life has changed dramatically in the last year: I closed my brick-and-mortar shop, relocated, watched dreams stretch into unknown spaces, and said goodbye to someone I loved deeply—my mother.

These transitions weren’t just practical—they were identity-shaking.

I knew who I was in the doing—entrepreneur, maker, daughter, caregiver, leader—but when those roles shifted, I found myself asking:

Who am I now?

What now, Lord?

Where is my fire, my purpose, my passion?

And for a while, there was no answer—only silence. Exhaustion. Doubt. Grief. I felt disoriented, not faithless, but… displaced. Like I was walking through a land where nothing looked familiar, even within myself.

Elijah’s Cave

That’s when I remembered Elijah.

The prophet who called down fire and stood boldly for truth, only to run into the wilderness the moment his world felt too heavy. He lay down under a broom tree and asked God to take his life. He was done—emotionally depleted and spiritually exhausted.

But God didn’t scold him or push him to try harder.

God let him rest. Fed him. And then met him in a cave.

Not in the wind.

Not in the earthquake.

Not in the fire.

“And after the fire came a gentle whisper.” (1 Kings 19:12)

That whisper wasn’t dramatic—but it was holy. It reminded Elijah that he was seen, not forgotten. That God was still present, even when the mission felt like it had collapsed.

 Being Honest in the Quiet

I’m learning that the most courageous thing we can do in transition is be honest. To admit we’re tired. To acknowledge we’re not okay. To allow ourselves to be held—not perform, not prove, just be.

We don’t need to chase clarity. We don’t need to manufacture purpose.

Sometimes, God asks us to slow down long enough to hear the whisper—the one that tells us we are still loved. Still called. Still worth caring for, even when we’re not producing or leading or creating at full speed.

The Invitation of the Whisper

If you find yourself where I’ve been—confused, untethered, unsure—this may be your Elijah moment.

The world will tell you to hustle, to fix, to figure it out. But maybe God is inviting you to sit under the broom tree for a while. To enter the cave. To listen—not for the thunder—but for the whisper.

Because sometimes, the whisper says:

“Rest.”

“You’re still mine.”

“Let Me carry this part.”

“You don’t need to know what’s next to be held right now.”

You’re not lost.

You’re being gently led.

And when the time comes, the whisper will become a direction—but for now, it may just be a reminder:

You are loved, even here.