Douglas Vandergraph

There are seasons in life when the hardest part is not the pain itself, but the silence that seems to surround it. You pray, but the words feel thin. You open Scripture, but it doesn’t move the way it once did. You look for reassurance, for warmth, for that familiar sense of closeness, and instead you are met with quiet. In those moments, a thought begins to form that feels both frightening and shameful: maybe God has stepped away. Maybe you’ve been left alone. This is not a new fear, and it is not a sign that something has gone wrong with your faith. It is one of the most human experiences a believer can have, and it is also one of the most misunderstood.

Feeling abandoned by God is not the same thing as being abandoned by God. Those two realities can feel identical from the inside, but they are profoundly different in truth. Feelings tell us something important about our inner state, but they do not always tell us what is actually happening. Pain has a way of narrowing our vision, of making absence feel larger than presence, of convincing us that silence must mean distance. Yet throughout the story of faith, silence is often the place where the deepest work is happening.

One of the most damaging assumptions we make is that closeness to God should always feel comforting. We assume that if God is near, we will feel peace, clarity, and reassurance. But Scripture tells a more complex story. It shows us people who were deeply loved by God and yet walked through seasons of confusion, fear, grief, and doubt. It shows us that God’s presence is not always experienced as relief. Sometimes it is experienced as endurance. Sometimes it is experienced as being held steady when everything inside you wants to collapse.

There are moments when God feels far not because He has moved, but because our capacity to sense Him has been overwhelmed. Trauma, grief, anxiety, depression, exhaustion, and prolonged stress all affect how we experience reality. They narrow our emotional bandwidth. They mute our sense of connection. They make everything feel distant, including God. This does not mean your faith is weak. It means your nervous system is under strain. God does not disappear when your emotional world shuts down. He remains present even when you cannot feel Him.

One of the most dangerous lies whispered in these seasons is the idea that silence means rejection. That if God were truly with you, things would feel different. That if you were more faithful, more prayerful, more disciplined, you wouldn’t feel this way. This lie quietly turns suffering into self-accusation. It convinces people that their pain is evidence of failure rather than a normal part of being human in a broken world.

But faith was never meant to be measured by how consistently we feel God. If it were, faith would rise and fall with our moods, our circumstances, and our mental health. Faith is not an emotional state. It is a posture of trust. It is the decision to lean on what is true when what is felt is unstable.

Throughout Scripture, we see people who trusted God while feeling abandoned by Him. We see prayers that sound more like protests than praise. We see questions that are not neatly resolved. These are not censored or corrected. They are preserved. They are included because they reflect a faith that is honest enough to speak from the depths rather than perform from the surface.

There is something deeply important about understanding that God does not equate silence with absence. In human relationships, silence often signals withdrawal. When someone stops responding, it usually means they have disengaged. We project that same logic onto God, assuming that quiet must mean distance. But God is not bound by the limitations of human communication. He does not vanish when He is quiet. In fact, some of the most transformative moments in faith occur in silence, when there is nothing left to rely on but trust itself.

Consider how growth works beneath the surface. When a seed is planted, everything that matters happens underground. There is no visible progress. There is no reassurance. There is only darkness, pressure, and time. If growth depended on constant visibility, nothing would ever take root. In the same way, there are seasons in the life of faith where God’s work is hidden. Not absent, hidden. Not inactive, unseen. These are the seasons that feel like abandonment, but are often preparation.

We often assume that God’s love must feel warm to be real. Yet love does not always express itself through comfort. Sometimes love expresses itself through patience. Through restraint. Through allowing a person to grow strong enough to carry what they are becoming. God does not always intervene immediately because immediate relief is not always the deepest form of care. There are things that can only be formed in endurance, in waiting, in learning to stand when nothing is holding you up emotionally.

This is difficult to accept because everything in us wants relief now. We want clarity now. We want assurance now. We want God to speak loudly enough to drown out our fear. When that does not happen, we assume something has gone wrong. But there are seasons where God is not trying to soothe you. He is trying to strengthen you. Not by hardening your heart, but by deepening it.

Feeling spiritually numb is one of the most misunderstood experiences in the life of faith. People often interpret numbness as a sign of spiritual decline, as if their connection to God has weakened or disappeared. In reality, numbness is often a protective response. When pain becomes too intense, the mind and body create distance as a way to survive. This emotional distance does not sever your relationship with God. It simply changes how that relationship is experienced for a time.

God does not measure your faith by how inspired you feel. He measures it by your willingness to remain, even when inspiration is gone. There is a quiet courage in staying when everything in you feels empty. There is a deep faith in choosing not to walk away, even when you feel nothing pulling you forward. This kind of faith is rarely celebrated, but it is profoundly strong.

There is also a tendency to believe that if God were truly present, life would make more sense. That the confusion would clear. That the questions would resolve. Yet Scripture is full of unresolved tension. Faith does not eliminate mystery. It teaches us how to live within it. God does not owe us immediate understanding in order to remain faithful to us. His presence is not dependent on our comprehension.

One of the most painful aspects of feeling abandoned by God is the isolation it creates. People often feel ashamed of these feelings and hide them. They fear judgment. They fear being told to pray harder, believe more, or stop doubting. This isolation compounds the pain, making it feel as though not only God, but everyone else, is distant as well. But faith was never meant to be a solitary performance. It was meant to be a shared journey through both certainty and doubt.

There are moments when faith feels strong and expansive, and moments when it feels fragile and threadbare. Both belong to the same story. God is not more present in one than the other. He is present in both. The difference is not His nearness, but our awareness of it.

It is important to understand that God’s promises are not contingent on your emotional state. His commitment does not weaken when you are tired. His love does not flicker when you struggle. He does not withdraw because you are confused, angry, or afraid. If anything, these are the moments when His presence is most steady, even if it is least felt.

We often imagine abandonment as a dramatic event, a clear moment when someone leaves. But spiritual abandonment, as people experience it, is usually subtle. It feels like unanswered prayers. Like delays that stretch on too long. Like doors that remain closed without explanation. Like walking forward without any sense of direction. These experiences are deeply unsettling, but they are not evidence of being forsaken. They are evidence of being human in a world where faith is not always accompanied by clarity.

There is a difference between God withholding comfort and God withdrawing His presence. Comfort is a feeling. Presence is a reality. God may withhold comfort for a season without ever withdrawing His presence. This distinction matters because it reframes how we interpret our experience. Instead of asking, “Why has God left me?” we begin to ask, “What might God be forming in me here?”

This is not an easy shift. It requires patience. It requires humility. It requires the willingness to sit with questions that do not have immediate answers. But it also opens the door to a deeper, more resilient faith. A faith that does not depend on constant reassurance. A faith that can withstand silence without collapsing into despair.

Many people who have walked through seasons of spiritual dryness later describe them as turning points. Not because they were pleasant, but because they stripped away illusions. They learned that faith is not about feeling close to God all the time. It is about trusting His closeness even when it cannot be felt. They learned that God’s faithfulness is not proven by emotional highs, but by steady presence through emotional lows.

There is something profoundly honest about admitting that you feel abandoned by God. It requires vulnerability. It requires courage. It requires letting go of the image of faith as constant confidence. God does not reject this honesty. He meets it. He receives it. He is not threatened by your questions or disappointed by your struggle. He is not waiting for you to feel better before He draws near.

In fact, the very act of turning toward God with your sense of abandonment is itself an expression of faith. You would not ask where God is if you did not believe, at some level, that He is there. The question itself reveals a relationship that has not been severed. It reveals a heart that still longs for connection, even when it feels lost.

There are seasons where faith feels like walking through fog. You take one step at a time, unsure of what lies ahead, trusting that the ground will be there when your foot lands. This kind of faith is quiet. It does not announce itself. It does not look impressive. But it is strong. It is resilient. It is the kind of faith that endures.

Feeling abandoned by God does not mean you have been abandoned by God. It often means you are in a season where faith is being refined, stripped of dependency on feeling, and anchored more deeply in truth. These seasons are uncomfortable, but they are not pointless. They are shaping something that will outlast the emotions that dominate them.

In the next part, we will move deeper into what it means to live faithfully in these seasons, how to hold onto hope when feelings fail, and how to recognize God’s presence even when it seems hidden.

For now, it is enough to know this: you are not alone in feeling this way, and you are not alone in this season. God’s silence is not His absence. His quiet work continues, even when you cannot see or feel it.

There comes a point in these seasons—often quietly, without announcement—when you realize that faith has changed shape. It is no longer the bright certainty it once was. It is steadier now. Heavier. Quieter. It does not rush to conclusions or demand immediate answers. It simply stays. And staying, in a season where God feels absent, is one of the most faithful things a person can do.

We are conditioned to believe that growth must feel like progress. That transformation must feel uplifting. That if God is at work, we should sense momentum. But some of the deepest work God does happens when nothing feels like it’s moving at all. These are the seasons where faith is not fueled by inspiration, but by commitment. Where obedience looks less like bold action and more like refusing to quit. Where prayer is not eloquent, but persistent. Where belief is not confident, but resilient.

One of the most difficult truths to accept is that God’s nearness does not guarantee emotional comfort. We want closeness to feel reassuring. We want presence to feel warm. Yet there are moments when God is near in ways that do not register emotionally. Much like a parent who stands watch while a child sleeps through a storm, God’s presence is sometimes protective rather than perceptible. You are kept, even when you are not comforted.

This challenges our assumptions about what love should feel like. We often equate love with immediate relief. But love also takes the long view. It sees who you are becoming, not just what you are enduring. God’s love is not reactive. It is intentional. It is not dependent on your current awareness of it. It holds steady even when you are unsure, even when you are questioning, even when you feel disconnected.

There is a particular grief that comes with spiritual silence. It is not just the pain of unanswered prayers, but the loss of something familiar. The loss of a sense of closeness you once knew. The loss of a spiritual rhythm that once sustained you. This grief deserves to be acknowledged. It is real. It is valid. And it does not disqualify you from faith. Grief and faith can coexist. In fact, they often do.

Many people try to rush through these seasons, believing that the goal is to get back to how things were before. But growth does not move backward. It moves deeper. The version of faith you are being formed into now may not look like the one you had before, but it may be stronger, more compassionate, more grounded, and more enduring.

There is also a subtle shift that happens when faith matures. You stop asking God to constantly prove Himself to you, and you begin to trust that He is who He says He is—even when your circumstances suggest otherwise. This trust is not blind. It is forged through experience, through survival, through seeing that you are still standing even after seasons that should have broken you.

When God feels absent, it is tempting to fill the silence with noise. To distract yourself. To numb the discomfort. To search for quick answers that will make the tension go away. But silence has a purpose. It invites reflection. It strips away superficial beliefs. It reveals what you are truly anchored to. In silence, faith is either deepened or abandoned. Staying is a choice.

Staying does not mean pretending you are okay. It does not mean suppressing doubt or forcing positivity. Staying means bringing your whole self—confusion, frustration, weariness, and all—into the presence of God, even when that presence feels distant. It means continuing the conversation, even when you feel like you are speaking into the void. God hears prayers that feel unanswered. He receives cries that feel unacknowledged.

There is also a quiet humility that develops in these seasons. You learn that you do not control outcomes. You do not manage timing. You do not always understand purpose in the moment. Faith becomes less about certainty and more about surrender. Not resignation, but trust. Trust that God’s perspective is broader than yours. Trust that what feels like delay may be alignment. Trust that what feels like loss may be pruning.

One of the most profound changes that occurs in these seasons is the way you relate to others. When you have felt abandoned, even temporarily, you become more compassionate toward those who are struggling. You stop offering easy answers. You stop minimizing pain. You begin to sit with people in their discomfort rather than trying to fix it. This is not accidental. God often uses our own seasons of silence to shape us into people who can hold space for others.

Faith that has survived silence carries a depth that faith formed only in comfort cannot. It knows the weight of unanswered questions. It understands the ache of waiting. It has learned that God is not a vending machine of blessings, but a steady presence through every season. This kind of faith does not need to announce itself. It speaks through endurance. Through patience. Through quiet strength.

There is also freedom that comes when you stop interpreting every difficulty as a sign of divine displeasure. Life is complex. Suffering is not always instructive. Pain is not always corrective. Sometimes things are simply hard. God does not need to orchestrate every hardship to be present within it. He does not abandon you to teach you a lesson. He walks with you because He loves you.

Many people fear that if they admit feeling abandoned by God, they are somehow betraying their faith. But honesty is not betrayal. It is relationship. You do not hide your pain from someone you trust. You bring it to them. God is not offended by your honesty. He is not shocked by your doubt. He is not disappointed by your fatigue. He knows your limits. He knows your frame. He remembers that you are human.

There is a tenderness in God’s patience that we often overlook. He does not rush your healing. He does not demand emotional recovery on a timeline. He does not pressure you to feel something you do not feel. He meets you where you are, not where you think you should be. This meeting may not always feel dramatic, but it is faithful.

Over time, often without your noticing, something shifts. You may not feel God in a sudden rush of emotion, but you begin to notice small evidences of His presence. A moment of peace that arrives unexpectedly. A strength you didn’t know you had. A clarity that comes slowly. A door that opens at the right time. These are not coincidences. They are signs of quiet faithfulness.

Looking back, many people realize that the season where God felt most absent was actually the season where their faith became most real. It stopped being borrowed. It stopped being performative. It stopped relying on constant affirmation. It became personal. Grounded. Durable.

This does not mean the pain was necessary or that it should be romanticized. Pain is painful. Silence is unsettling. Waiting is exhausting. But meaning can still be found within these experiences. Not because they are good in themselves, but because God is present within them.

If you are in a season right now where God feels distant, it is important to resist the urge to make permanent conclusions based on temporary feelings. Feelings shift. Circumstances change. God remains. Your current experience is not the final word on your relationship with Him. It is a chapter, not the conclusion.

You are not behind. You are not failing. You are not forgotten. You are in process. A process that is shaping depth, resilience, and a faith that will sustain you long after this season passes.

Faith is not proven by how loudly you can proclaim it when things are easy. It is proven by how quietly you hold onto it when everything feels uncertain. This kind of faith does not demand immediate answers. It rests in trust. It waits without despair. It hopes without guarantee.

There may come a day when you feel God’s closeness again in a way that is unmistakable. There may come a moment when the silence lifts and clarity returns. But even if that day feels far away, know this: the absence you feel is not abandonment. It is not evidence of God’s withdrawal. It is part of a larger story of growth, refinement, and enduring love.

For now, it is enough to remain. To breathe. To keep showing up. To keep turning toward God, even when you feel nothing in return. This turning itself is faith. Quiet. Unseen. Powerful.

Feeling abandoned by God does not mean you have been abandoned by God.

It often means you are being held in a way that does not announce itself, guided in a way that is not immediately visible, loved in a way that is deeper than feeling.

Stay.

Trust.

You are not alone.

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Your friend,
Douglas Vandergraph