Beneath the Noise

Finding God in Silence and Seclusion

I have come to realize that I need silence and seclusion more than most.

This was not something I always understood about myself. There was a time in my life when I was busy, restless, and constantly engaged. I loved to talk. I asked a lot of questions (some things never change). I filled space easily. My mind was always active, always moving, and always reaching outward.

At the time, it felt normal. It felt like connection. It felt like life, but looking back, I can see that there was also a kind of underlying agitation in it and a constant movement that never really settled. I did not realize then how much of that movement was pulling me away from stillness and from God.

It was not until I stepped into a different way of living that I began to see this more clearly. For a period of time, I lived in a residential spiritual community. One of the practices we kept was taking personal days of silence. On those days, we would not speak at all. If we needed to communicate, we would write down what we needed to say on a notepad and show it to one another.

At first, it felt unnatural. Then something started to become very clear. The noise had not gone anywhere. It was still there, but now it was inside me and very loud. Without conversation, without the ability to immediately express every thought, without the constant back and forth of interaction, I began to see just how chaotic my mind really was. I was in there talking all the time. There was constantly commentary running in the background. There was always a pull to reach outward into the material world, to connect, and to fill the space.

Silence did not create that. It revealed it, and in revealing it, it showed me something about my relationship with God. It showed me how difficult it is to hear God when everything inside of me is constantly speaking and pointing me away.

I also began to notice something more subtle. When you have to communicate in writing, you tend to say only what is necessary. There is no room for filler. There is no impulse to keep talking just to fill space.

I saw how many unnecessary thoughts I had and how many unnecessary words I used. Silence taught me to be more concise. It taught me to pause before expressing something. It taught me to ask, “Is this actually needed?,” and over time, that question caused me to ask, “Is this necessary, or is this noise? Is this coming from peace or from anxiety?”

I also saw how impulsive I used to be with my speech. I was quick to reply. I would jump to conclusions. I would feel something and immediately want to communicate it, resolve it, or make sure everything was okay. There was often worry underneath that and a lack of trust in God that things would unfold as they should.

That has changed. I am not saying that I do not worry, because I am unfortunately an anxious person, but I am no longer as quick to act on it. I do not feel the same urgency to speak everything out or solve everything immediately. Now, I wait and observe. I allow things to unfold, and in that waiting, I have begun to trust God more.

Time allows for a lot of things. Some things work themselves out. Some things explain themselves. Some problems solve themselves without my interference. I have come to see that not everything requires my control and my voice. Silence has taught me that God is at work even when I am not, especially when I am not.

Over time, I became a woman of fewer words. To this day, I do not talk very much. I ask questions when I need answers, but otherwise, I am quiet, and I have come to love that quiet. In some situations, it has actually become a challenge for me to think of what to say. I have found that much of everyday speech feels unnecessary. It feels like filler, superficial.

I have become someone who values depth. I love meaningful conversations. I love when something real is being shared, when there is substance, when there is something to engage with. In those moments, I can speak freely. I can ask questions. I can express genuine curiosity and interest, but outside of that, I often find that I do not have much to say. I am comfortable with that.

In the quiet, I have come to recognize something more important than conversation. I have become aware of God.

There is also something else I learned early in life. Words can harm. I have seen it in families, romantic relationships, and in friendships. I have seen how quickly something spoken in a moment can leave a lasting mark. Because of that, I have become more careful. I would rather say nothing than cause harm with my words.

Every person carries the breath and image of God within them. It is the one place where we are all equal, and because of that, how we speak to one another matters. If I speak in a way that harms another, I am not just harming them. I am moving against something sacred. I am moving against God within them, and while I cannot speak for God, I imagine that God does not like that very much.

Silence has helped me remember that. It has slowed me down enough to help me choose restraint instead of reaction. It has also reminded me that words are not neutral. They carry weight. They have the ability to either reflect God or move against God.

The environment I once lived in also supported this in a way that is hard to find in everyday life. I was out in nature constantly. I did not have a phone attached to me all the time. I was not online. I was not posting on social media. All of those things take up more space than we realize and entrench us more and more in the world.

Instead, I would walk through the woods behind the center where I lived. I would let my bare feet touch the ground. I would sit on the dock by the lake and look out over the water. At night, I would lie on the ground and watch the stars. In those moments, I was not just alone. I was with God. In the quiet of nature, without distraction, God’s presence became more noticeable in a steady, grounding way.

I read a lot. I made music. I created art. I studied spiritual texts. I learned how to be alone, and in learning how to be alone, I learned how to be with God. Many of those habits have stayed with me.

Even now, I live a quieter life than most. I rarely watch television, maybe a couple of hours a week. I see the occasional movie, but it is not something I fill my time with. I still read often. I spend time in prayer and spiritual contemplation. I go out into nature. I create space for stillness and the writing of poetry.

I am not trying to escape the world, but I am trying to remain aware of God within it, and I have found that requires a certain amount of external quiet. My mind is still very active. That has not gone away, but now, I can see it clearly. I can observe my thoughts rather than being carried by them. I can study what is arising and look at what is underneath it. I can ask myself where a thought is coming from and what it is rooted in, and I can bring that into relationship with God. I am a constant work in progress.

Most importantly, I can ask, “Is this bringing me closer to God, or is it pulling me further away?” That question has become a kind of inner compass. Silence made that possible. It has strengthened my ability to discern, not just my thoughts, but my relationship with God within those thoughts. It has shown me patterns that would have remained hidden in a life filled with constant noise and distraction. It has revealed attachments, habits, and tendencies that quietly pull me away from God.

It has also taught me something about the world around me. The material world can be very distracting for me. It can make me anxious. It can pull me into busyness and mental noise. It can trigger all kinds of draining thoughts and patterns within me. When I am constantly exposed to input, whether that is conversation, social media, or simply being around people, I can feel myself becoming overwhelmed, and when I am overwhelmed, I lose awareness of God.

Silence brings me back. I put my phone on silent. I spend time alone. I allow space for my mind and body to settle. I do not feel the need to fill that space with music or television. I need time to decompress, and in that space, I become aware again. I can think clearly. I can see what is actually happening inside of me rather than being carried along by it. I can begin to discern the difference between thoughts that are reactive, anxious, or driven by habit, and thoughts that are quieter, steadier, and more aligned with God.

Over time, silence has also changed my relationship with God. It has become less about saying things and more about being present with Presence. In that there is less efforting, more listening, more stillness, and more receptivity.

These days, I am not trying to reach God in the same ways as I used to. I am learning to notice that God is already there, wanting to have a relationship with me, wanting to meet me if only I provided the space and became available.

Silence and seclusion are not empty for me. They are full. They are where I return to myself and where I become aware of God in a way that is much harder to access when I am constantly distracted. They have shown me how active my mind is, how easily I can be pulled away, and that I do not have to follow every thought. I can observe it, question it, and choose. In that space of choosing, I can choose God.

Silence has strengthened my discernment. It has revealed what is unnecessary. It has helped me value restraint, both in speech and in action. It has given me a sense of inner steadiness that I did not have before that is not coming from me alone but from learning to remain with God in the quiet.

I no longer feel the same urgency to reach outward or to fill every moment. There is more space, clarity, and peace. This does not mean that I withdraw from people completely. It means that I am more intentional. There are people whose presence feels grounded, peaceful, and aligned with God, and being around them does not disrupt what silence has cultivated in me. It supports it.

I no longer feel the need to always be around others, and in that, there is freedom. People can come and go without me needing them to be there. I no longer feel the need to fill the quiet spaces that were once uncomfortable but now are peaceful.

Silence has become something I return to, not something I avoid because in the silence, I have come to know something I could not see before. God was always there. I was just unavailable to connect with all my noise.

In the quiet,

Jennifer