prayer

I’m afraid of losing her

Ever since my daughter was born, I would check on her multiple times each night to make sure she was still breathing. Nearly ten years later and I still do this. If she goes to sleep before me, when I go upstairs, I check on her before I go to bed. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I go in her room to check on her before going back to sleep. If I wake up before her in the morning, I check on her before I go downstairs. 

I’ve often thought about why this I do this. I’m sure it’s partly out of habit. I’ve been doing it for so long that it’s just something I do. But there’s more to it than that. 

Of course, I check on her because I love her. She’s my only child and we are extremely close. She means the world to me and I adore her. But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s only part of why I check on her so often. 

Having reflected on this behavior quite a bit over the years, the thing I keep coming back to is fear. I’m afraid of losing her, of something happening to her in her sleep, and of her dying suddenly with no warning or explanation. I’m afraid of this because, deep down, I still feel like I don’t deserve her. 

My daughter is such an amazing soul. She is thoughtful, compassionate, kind, creative, hardworking, and extremely smart. I’m in awe of her and I have more love for her than I ever thought I was capable of having for another human being. The thought of losing her terrifies me. 

I have done a lot wrong in my life. At times, I have been selfish, careless, and unkind. Especially in my youth, I have done many things that I regret. And while I know that my shortcomings and mistakes do not define who I am, I also know that I have a life better than I deserve, especially when it comes to her. In the back of my mind, and sometimes in the forefront, I am haunted by the thought of losing her as some kind of divine punishment for my pride, anger, and other wrongdoings. 

Sometimes, this fear drives me to be a better father. It motivates me to spend as much time with her as possible, to be as present for her as I am capable of being, to guide her as best I can, and to let her know that I love her often. Other times, it’s just fear. It results in worry, anxiety, and restless nights. 

The thing is that I know that God loves me and forgives me for my past mistakes. I have confessed them to him and another person, and I have tried to right my wrongs to the best of my ability. I also know, however, that what’s done is done and I cannot change the past. I have to live with my mistakes. 

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this other than that I needed to get it out. I needed to acknowledge it and put it “on paper” so to speak. Perhaps I wonder if other fathers have the same feelings toward their children, a feeling of absolute unworthiness for the unfathomable miracle that they are. Maybe this is my way of reaching out for connection with those who feel the same way that I do, or maybe someone else needs to know that they are not alone. 

What I am sure of, however, is that God is loving and merciful, so loving in fact that he sacrificed his own son to pay for my sins. For me to continue to wallow in grief and remorse is almost ungrateful, almost a denial of that gift, and it certainly does not make me more useful to God or the people around me. My fear is a subtle way of rejecting God’s grace. 

Perhaps that’s what this is all about. Maybe, through the deep and unexplainable feelings I have for my daughter, God is showing me how much he loves me. I might be making too much out of nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing to me. It feels like everything and, as I check on her this evening and kiss her goodnight, I will do so as a form of prayer. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

With practice and grace

The task of a person called to live a contemplative life is to notice things, to observe God in everyday occurrences, in mundane interactions, and in the places people normally do not look for God. But if God is, isn’t God in everything? Like Adam and Eve in the garden after eating the forbidden fruit, isn’t it we who are hiding, not God? 

The call to contemplation begins as a whisper. It’s a fleeting glimpse into eternity that leaves us wanting more. In a moment, God catches us off guard and grabs our attention. He pulls back the veil and we get to see what he sees, and feel what he feels. But as quickly as he reveals himself to us, he withdraws, leaving us full and empty at the same time. 

In what feels like his absence, we long for his presence. We begin to sense, to know, that nothing less than perfect union with perfect God is going to be enough. And yet there is something in the way. We can’t quite get there no matter how much we want to. 

God is always present, constantly pouring himself out, in and through us, but we are not always present to and for him. We have to practice. Awareness takes practice. Consciousness takes practice. Stillness takes practice.

As we practice, as we awaken to God’s presence, God’s presence begins to awaken within us. More and more often, we start to feel him acting through us, we begin to see him in our life as it unfolds before us, and we start to see and hear him in and through others. Over time, with practice and grace, God-consciousness becomes the rule, not the exception. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

The heartache of the spiritual path

The spiritual life does not save us from heartache or suffering. It opens us up to experience life more fully. By choosing to live with an open heart, we are choosing both joy and sadness, pleasure and pain, connection and heartbreak. We get it all. 

Whether we know it or not, when we step onto the spiritual path, we are making a decision to feel everything, to experience everything. As a spiritual director once told me, “Unfortunately, we do not get to selectively numb. We can feel everything or nothing.” Openness is a package deal.

But it’s hard. Living with an open heart is hard. Love is hard. People we care about pass away, some betray or abandon us, and others disappoint us and let us down. And, in spite of this, we have to keep going. 

People who were on the path before us, who once led, guided, and accompanied us, they sometimes fall off or walk away, or they may simply stop seeking. They stop growing. Likewise, people we entered onto this journey along side, or met along the way, may not stay with us for the long haul. We are lucky if they do, but chances are they won’t. 

Quite often what feels like a parallel path of lifelong companionship turns out to be only a brief meeting at a crossroads. Even the deepest connections, connections that feel eternal, may not last but a moment before we are pulled by God or self in different directions. And parting hurts. 

If we are dedicated to this path, however, if we have chosen to love and seek God above all else, we must keep going. For those of us who long so deeply for divine connection with the infinite and eternal source of all things that nothing else will suffice, we must continue on the path even, or perhaps especially, when it gets lonely. We must walk in faith with our broken hearts toward the one who heals all wounds. 

But it’s not going to be easy. Easy was never the promise anyway. It’s going to be real. It’s going to be true. It’s going to be meaningful. It’s going to be rewarding. It’s going to be fulfilling. But it’s not going to be easy. 

This hardened world will break our fragile hearts, but as the late Leonard Cohen said, “That’s how the light gets in.” 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

God’s goodnight kiss

As I finished my daily writing, my wife and my daughter were both fast asleep. Normally, I’d be right behind them, but on this night I was up later than usual. I had overbooked myself that day and I was behind on my work. The fact that I had overslept that morning didn’t help, but I needed it. It had been a long week with lots of jiu-jitsu classes, wrestling practices, appointments, meetings, and a tight schedule all around. 

Normally, I wake up at around 5:30am to do my morning prayers before my wife and daughter get up for work and school, respectively. On this day, I slept until nearly 7am. Actually, we all did. With only one bathroom, this caused quite a scurry to get everyone out the door on time and, being unwilling to give up my morning prayers, which, between my daily readings and meditation usually take about an hour, I was late for jiu-jitsu. I wasn’t scheduled to teach, so it wasn’t really a big deal, but my tardiness set the tone for the rest of my day. 

Fast forward and now it’s time for bed and I still hadn’t finished my writing for the day. So I sat down to write and, of course, I was stuck. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been more of a morning person than an evening person. My creative work is no different. In the morning, if I’m not distracted, the work just seems to flow out of me. At night, it’s much more of a struggle. Being tired doesn’t help. So here I am, past my bedtime, stuck at my keyboard determined to get something out. 

You could say I had writer’s block, but I’ve learned that there is no such thing as writer’s block. What feels like writer’s block is really just pride manifesting itself as fear, frustration, and perfectionism. Somehow writer’s believe that everything they write should be their best work and, if it isn’t, they convince themselves that some mysterious force is blocking them from writing. In actuality, no great creative work happens without a lot of mediocre, or even terrible, work happening first. The key to good writing, therefore, is to just write. 

So I started to get some ideas out. After a lot of false starts, typed and deleted sentences, and prideful disappointment in myself, things began to flow. After about an hour, I finally got to a point where I was pleased enough with what I had written that I was willing to publish it. I posted it to my blog, closed up my laptop, and got myself ready for bed. 

At night, before I lie down, I always go into my daughter’s room to check on her, give her a kiss on the cheek, and say my evening prayers at her bedside. This night was no different, except it was. My routine was the same, but as I walked away from her, I was overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe I was just overly tired. Perhaps it was a sense of release from having gotten through a very long day. But it felt like more. 

I went into my room, laid my head on my pillow, and was struck with a feeling of pure love coupled with a vision, like a waking dream. It lasted but a moment, but in that moment it was as if God uploaded into my consciousness a lifetime’s worth of information all at once. 

What I saw in my mind’s eye was me giving my daughter her goodnight kiss, but I saw it from the outside looking in. Words come up short, but in this single kiss, I could see the love transferred between us. I could see my love for her flowing from me into her, her reception of my love flowing back into me like the closing of a circuit, and God’s love for both of us surrounding us and flowing through the entire relationship. It felt like God gave me a glimpse, even if ever so briefly, into what he sees. 

This experience passed as suddenly as it came to me. Exhausted from the day, I fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up remembering what had happened the night before. As life goes, however, the day’s demands distracted me from reflection. It wasn’t until much later that I was able to really acknowledge and process this experience. In my reflection, I realized how easy it is to ignore, deny, or dismiss these moments and to simply move on with our lives, but I refuse to do so. I can’t. 

These experiences, fleeting glimpses into the mystery of God’s love, leave me longing for more, longing for God, but also extremely grateful that he chose to come to me in this way. Now my task is to not allow this transformative experience to go to waste, to use it, like so many others that I have had like it, as fuel to go deeper, to get closer, and to be still and present more often. But knowing that I cannot manufacture spiritual experiences, that I cannot make God come to me, and that grace is a gift undeserved, the best I can do is to pray. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Pray without ceasing

There is so much temptation to argue with the world over worldly things and I often give in to that temptation, but every time I do, it leaves me feeling empty and disappointed. Specifically when I engage in online debate, whatever dubious, fleeting pleasure I get out of trying to be right is quickly replaced by hollow dissatisfaction. Even if I perceive myself as having won whatever debate I interjected myself into, the cost is almost always greater than the reward. 

What is there to even win? What will I gain compared to my lost time, attention, and happiness? The answer is little to nothing. In fact, it’s not even a net zero. I inevitably end up feeling worse than when I started after having wasted precious minutes and hours focused on something other than what is actually good, healthy, and fulfilling. 

In spite of this, I still find myself battling the temptation to get involved in things that don’t really concern me. It’s not even that I am drawn in by some righteous or noble cause, and I’m not trying to create some great change through debate. It’s my pride and vanity driving me to engage in this pointless conflict for the sake of conflict. The truth is most people are not arguing online to have their minds changed anyway. Rather, I’m simply trying to seem smart or to prove others wrong. This is not the path to heaven or even contentment. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. 

Case in point, after the recent election, I found myself engaging with some posts on my social media feed. I then shared an old friends post which expressed a controversial political opinion. Adding to this, I created a post stating a dissenting view on my own post, hoping for validation, but expecting negative attention.

As time passed, I started getting comments on my posts. I engaged with some of them. Others I ignored. But what I started to notice was that, even when I was not on social media, I was thinking about what comments others were making on my posts. What did the think about me? What were they saying about me? Who else agreed with them? Was I upsetting people? How was this affecting my public image? All of this self-centered fear drove me to check my social media feed on my phone over and over again for hours. 

The more I checked my phone, the worse I felt. This was not because people were criticizing me and my point of view. I expected that and I could have predicted exactly who would do so, as well as what they would say. I felt worse over time because I began realizing just how fruitless this activity was. More so, it was becoming clear to me that, aside from this not adding value to my life, it was actually detracting from my joy, my peace of mind, and my ability to focus the things that truly matter. 

Most importantly, however, I realized that all of this time spent worrying about what other people were thinking or saying was time I was not thinking about God. That is, instead of engaging people in political debate on social media, I could have been praying. I don’t mean on my knees prayer, which I do at the beginning and end of the day, but “praying without ceasing (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)” through meditation, contemplation, spiritual reading, Christian podcasts, or service work. By obsessing over worldly matters, I was ignoring my higher calling. I was ignoring God. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Leaves floating downstream

When my daughter gets a song stuck in her head, for whatever reason, listening to the song on the radio helps free her mind of the song. So quite often I hear her voice from the backseat of the car saying, “Daddy. [insert song title] is stuck in my head. Can you play it?” She tends to be extremely sincere and generally honest, so I at least believe that the song is stuck in her head, but I’m not entirely sure whether this trick of playing the song to get it out of her head actually works or not, or if she just uses this as an excuse to ask me to play the song for her.

Either way, I typically humor her. I don’t mind playing music she likes while I’m driving. It helps me understand her a little better and it’s an opportunity for us to bond. There are times, however, when I simply want to listen to my music, either because I’m simply not in the mood for hers or because I want to expose her to something new. She tends to be fairly understanding, at least as understanding as a child can be, and it gives us a good reason to talk about music, which is something I have always enjoyed. 

Tonight, maybe I simply wasn’t in the mood to listen to the song she said was stuck in her head or maybe I was just being stubborn, but when she asked me to play a song to relieve her of the torture of it running through her mind, I said no. But I wasn’t being cruel. I turned it into a conversation about intrusive, obsessive thoughts, something I have struggled with for as long as I can remember, and a healthy way I have learned to manage, or even transcend them. 

When she told me that the song was stuck in her head and she couldn’t make it go away, I explained that I have the same problem sometimes. In fact, we all have minds that often seem like they are entirely out of our control. Even when we want them to be quiet, they simply won’t and we live with the constant chatter of hope, worry, anger, fear, frustration, excitement, anticipation, shame, regret, etc. running through our minds. Sometimes it is so loud and chaotic that it almost seems quiet, but it is anything but. 

We think about the past, the future, and all the things that have happened, could have happened, may happen, or may never happen, and we are rarely, if ever, simply at peace in the present moment. This, I explained to her, is one of the reasons I meditate every day. “Really?” she asked. “Yes, dear,” I replied. “When I don’t meditate, my mind races, obsesses, and does all sorts of crazy stuff to drive me crazy. Meditation helps to quiet my mind down a bit, or at least makes me less susceptible to getting carried away with the thoughts that bombard me from every direction.” 

I then explained that, in the style of meditation that I practice, known as centering prayer, I pick a simple word that I can repeat whenever my thoughts become intrusive or my mind wanders. I sit quietly and, when thoughts arise, I simply say the word in my mind as a way to let the thoughts go. I don’t try to fight the thoughts or deny them. Rather, I acknowledge them with my word, and let them gently go on their way. “It doesn’t matter how many thoughts arise or how often, I explained, only that I return to the practice of repeating my word every time I need to return to center.” 

Intrigued, she started throwing out some words she might be able to use to release the song in her head. At first, she chose “Stop,” as her word, but then I explained that it’s preferable to use a word that is softer and less of a command. “Remember,” I said, “The goal is not to resist the song, only to free yourself from it.” “Please” was the next word she chose. “That’s closer, dear, but it’s still engaging your thoughts. What we want is a word to remind us to let the thoughts go, not to directly engage our thoughts.” 

“Here’s a visualization I once heard,” I said, “That has helped me better understand the practice. Imagine your mind is a stream. It’s cool and calm, with the water quietly flowing by. On top of the water are fallen leaves. These leaves are your thoughts. As they float down the stream, you will be tempted to hold onto them or to follow them, but the goal is to let them be, to simply acknowledge them and let them continue to float downstream. Your word is there to remind you to let the leaves go and to keep your mind on the stream itself.” 

As I explained this all to her, it occurred to me that it may be a bit much for her to comprehend. After all, it’s a bit much for me to comprehend and I’m the one practicing it. But then I realized that, even if she doesn’t understand or utilize this practice now, it’s something she can recall when she is ready. I merely planted a seed, a seed I wish was planted for me earlier in my life, but which I am grateful to have received when I did. 

We pulled up to our home and unloaded the car. I went upstairs to take a shower after jiu-jitsu class while my daughter sat down to eat. After my shower, I came down to eat and my daughter, now done with her dinner, went upstairs to get ready for bed. After she showered, brushed her teeth, and read for a while, my wife tucked her in and turned out the lights. As she lay in bed, from downstairs I could hear her every few minutes saying a single word. “Leaf,” she said and then some time would pass. “Leaf,” and some more time would pass. “Leaf,” she said again, until eventually she fell asleep. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Praying for courage

I’ve been a public speaker on and off in various venues for the past twenty seven or so years. Most of my talks have revolved around recovery from drug and alcohol addiction, and the relationship with God that made my recovery possible. It’s a subject with which I have intimate knowledge and about which I am extremely passionate. And yet, I still get nervous before I speak.

I have spoken at countless venues in front of a variety of audiences, and it has always worked out. With the exception of one or two talks many years ago when my anxiety got the best of me, things have always gone well. Even in those rare one or two rare cases, I was able to pivot and pull it off.

Time and time again, my experience has proven that I have nothing to fear, I’m not an imposter, and things are going to be fine. Most importantly, however, my experience has proven that God will not abandon me, that he loves me, provides for me, and protects me. He has never let me down. And yet, I still get nervous before I speak.

I often wonder what it would be like to have perfect faith. That is, what would it be like to trust God implicitly, always, to fear nothing, and to never worry? While I do believe that this state of perfect faith is possible, if only because I believe that, for God all things are possible, I have a long way to go before I achieve it.

I have had brief moments of perfect faith. But like most people, I’m flawed and broken, impatient and untrusting, and I try to control things that are either out of my control or that would be better left to God. Precisely because of this brokenness, when I get nervous before I speak, and even when I don’t, I find a quiet space to pray. My fear is my own, but my courage comes from God.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

In stillness

“I invite you to sit still, sit straight, fold your hands and bow. Repeat after me:
Be still, and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10 NIV).
Be still, and know that I am.
Be still, and know.
Be still.
Be.” 

Followed by several minutes of silence, this simple, but beautifully powerful prayer is how Dr. James Finley closes out each podcast episode of Turning to the Mystics. In addition to leading theTurning to the Mystics podcast with co-host Kristen Oats, Dr. Finley is an author, clinical psychologist, retreat leader, public speaker, and former student of the late, modern mystic Thomas Merton. In each episode, drawing from his vast knowledge of and experience with the material, Dr. Finley gives listeners modern, practical perspective on the writings and teachings of various figureheads in the Christian mystical tradition. 

A now devout listener of the Turning to the Mystics podcast, which came into my life at exactly the right time (funny how God seems to always work that way), this prayer was on my mind this morning as I did my morning meditation. Being still has always been difficult for me, especially in the sense that God means it in this particular Psalm. I’m a worrier, a planner, and a doer. Sitting in silence for an extended period of time, being still and allowing God to be God, goes against every instinct I have. 

This resistance to stillness has come at a cost. Several years ago, I essentially worried, planned, and worked my way into a series of anxiety attacks. I had reached my limit, the jumping off place, where my best best ideas and my best thinking were no longer working. I was working two jobs, one of which was my own business, training jiu-jitsu as much as I could, and trying to navigate family life to the best of my ability, all while neglecting my physical, mental, and spiritual health. 

As covid swept through the world and things began to shut down, I crashed. Life came to a grinding halt and I, who had been running full speed for longer than I can remember, broke down. At the time, I had no idea what was happening, but it felt like my life, and my sanity, was ending. I couldn’t sit still, let alone be still, and I had no where to go. Forced to be with myself, undistracted by the hectic pace I to which I had grown accustomed, I crumbled under the weight of my own unresolved issues. 

Like so many times before, in this moment of desperation, I said a prayer. At the time, I didn’t know it was a prayer. I prayed on my knees every day upon awakening and before going to sleep, but this was not like that. This was my soul crying out for help. From the deepest part of my being, I admitted that what I was doing wasn’t working, that who I had become was not who I was intended to be, and that I couldn’t go on anymore like this. 

I’d like to say that I changed immediately and all was well from that moment on, but the truth is that it has been a long, difficult road from there to here. Along the way, I began working with a therapist, I left my job of twelve years and my career of almost twenty, I refocused my attention on my family and my health, and, most importantly, I was led back to my spiritual path in a deeper, more meaningful way than I previously thought possible. God is now at the center at my life where he belongs and it is easy for me to see where and how things went so wrong when, in spite of my stated beliefs and habitual prayers, my life did not reflect this simple truth. 

That brings us back to stillness. As I sat this morning to read, pray, and meditate, it occurred to me that what was once the most difficult thing in the world for me to do is now the thing that feels the most natural, the most necessary, and the most fulfilling. That, in spite of my resistance, obstinance, and even defiance, I can, and do, sit down every morning to simply be with God is nothing less than a miracle. 

In stillness, I find the peace, rest, and connection that no amount of running, chasing, or hustling was ever going to bring me. In stillness, I learn that life goes on around and without me, and that I do not have to involve myself with or react to every little thing that crosses my mind or my path. In stillness, there is freedom from boredom, worry, and desire. In stillness, I surrender to the love that sustains me. In stillness, I am allowed, or rather commanded, to merely be, to trust and know that God is God.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Check your connection

We had a fairly big snowstorm hit us earlier this week. That is to say, for our area and the infrastructure we have in place to handle it, we got enough snow to shut things down for a few days, including my daughter’s school. As such, we have spent a lot of time together at home this week. 

While her mother and I worked from home, we let our daughter watch a few movie’s on her mother’s iPad in between playing outside, reading, doing art projects, etc. Since I need some degree of quiet to do my work, I asked her to wear headphones while she watched Shrek for the hundredth time. I’m not knocking Shrek by the way. It’s a great movie and, apparently, since I just found out it came out in 2001, it stands the test of time. 

Not a moment after she got set up with the iPad, headphones on, all snuggled up in her blanket, when I heard her say, “I don’t hear anything. Daddy, I don’t hear anything. It’s not working.” Not wanting to get up from my work, I decided to draw experience from my former career as a commercial coffee-equipment repair technician and I went into troubleshooting mode. 

  1. “Does it have power?” Yes.
  2. “Is it connected to the wifi?” Yes.
  3. “Is the movie playing?” Yes. 
  4. “Is the volume turned up?” Yes. 
  5. “Are the headphones plugged into the iPad?” Yes.
  6. “Is the wire plugged into the headphones?” Oh! No. It’s loose. It’s plugged in now. That worked. Thanks, daddy!

Problem solved, but, being in the middle of studying and writing about Christian theology and spiritual practices, this interaction got me thinking. Prayer, it seems, works a lot like this. 

One aspect of prayer is petitioning to God for answers to questions we have. We humbly ask him for guidance, inspiration, or discernment so that we can better understand and conform to his will. But sometimes we pray and pray, and the answers just don’t seem to come. 

It’s easy to assume that, when we can’t hear Him, God is just being quiet, that he is not answering our prayers, that we are being ignored, or that that we need to pray harder. But we rarely stop to think about our connection. What if we can’t hear him because our connection is broken? We know from Scripture that God does not abandon his people (Psalm 94:14) and that, if we reach out to him with a contrite heart and faithful intentions, his hand will be there (Jeremiah 29:12-13). 

The Bible also tells us that God is faithful (Deuteronomy 7:9), that he hears and answers our prayers (Psalm 34:17), and, above all, that he loves us (1 John 4:16). In fact, it also tells us that God knows what we need before we even ask (Matthew 6:8). The problem, therefore, is not likely to be on God’s end. When we pray and can’t hear the answer, we may need to check our connection. 

Here are a few questions worth asking yourself if you have been praying, but feel like God is not answering. 

  • Are your prayers sincere? 
  • Is there an answer in Scripture? 
  • Have you consulted with other Christians, perhaps with a spiritual director? 
  • Do you genuinely want God’s answer or are you simply waiting for the answer you want? 
  • Are you just avoiding making a decision and stepping out in faith? 
  • Is there something you have kept to yourself that may be blocking you from hearing God’s voice, something that requires confession? 
  • Have you turned your thoughts to someone else you can be of service to? This often helps distract us from our own selfish concerns, leaving room for God to speak. 
  • Are you simply being impatient? 
  • Do you leave space in your life to hear God’s voice? Do you have a quiet hour in the morning and/or the evening for spiritual reading, prayer, and contemplation? Or are you so busy that you couldn’t hear him even if he was yelling? 

I hope this helps. When in doubt, check your headphones. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh

To read my poetry, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior

Prayer is the return message

Every morning, I set aside time for God. Upon awakening, I say a prayer of thankfulness and petition to God for guidance and strength, and then, after taking care of my morning hygiene, I go downstairs and sit down to read a few passages of scripture as well as some other spiritual literature. This period of reading is followed by twenty minutes of silent, centering prayer, after which I write a poem for my Meditations of a Gentle Warrior blog and a longer piece for my personal website. 

On a perfect day, this is all done first thing in the morning before my wife and daughter wake up. Many days, however, this time is broken up by my making breakfast for my daughter and helping her get ready for school or whatever other activities she has going on. When this is the case, I usually listen to a spiritual podcast or lecture while prepping her food. 

Lately, I am listening to a variety of things, including Father Mike Schmitz’s ‘Bible in a Year’ podcast, the audiobook version of Henri Nouwen’s ‘Spiritual Direction,’ the ‘Turning to the Mystics’ podcast with James Finley, Steve Macchia’s podcast ‘The Discerning Leader,’ as well as a variety of YouTube talks by Fr. Mike Schmitz, Bishop Robert Barron, among others. 

Today was a snow-day for my daughter so she didn’t have school and we all slept a little later than we usually do. For me, sleeping in means waking up at around 7am. I have never really been a late sleeper. When I woke up, I said my prayers, listened to a talk by Fr. Mike Schmitz while making some french toast for my daughter, and then sat down to read and sit in silence.

A few minutes into my silent prayer, I heard my daughter walking down the stairs. I could sense that she was trying to be quiet because she saw that I was in prayer and, to the degree that a nine year old is capable, she tends to be very respectful. My eyes still closed, I could feel her standing next to me. She then leaned in, kissed me on the forehead, said, “I love you,” and walked away. 

She asked for nothing. Unsolicited and without expectation, she simply returned the love so freely given to her. Her kiss and the words, “I love you,” were her return message, her way of saying to me that she knows I love her, that my love is felt by her, and that this love is reciprocated. In that moment, it occurred to me that this is what prayer is really about. Isn’t it? It’s our way of saying, “I love you,” to the one who has loved us since before we were in the womb, much like I have loved my daughter since the very possibility existed of her ever even being born.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox.