The Letter I Never Meant to Write

I almost didn’t write the letter. What do you say to the God you’ve stopped talking to? For months, my prayers had turned into sighs, and my Bible into a decoration on the nightstand. I told myself I was “just tired,” but the truth was simpler, I was disappointed.

When the job fell through, when my best friend’s diagnosis worsened, when every prayer seemed to echo back hollow  I began to wonder if heaven was listening at all. Faith fatigue feels like drowning in sunlight, you look fine, but you’re sinking quietly.

Then one night, after a long day of holding it together, I sat on my apartment floor with a pen and a crumpled piece of paper. No worship music. No perfect words. Just exhaustion.

“Dear God,” I began. “If You’re still here… please remind me who I am.”

That night, I dreamed of a field of lilies white and still, swaying in invisible wind. I hadn’t thought about that verse in years: “They neither toil nor spin.” When I woke up, peace sat on my chest like sunlight.

The job didn’t come back. The diagnosis didn’t change. But something in me did. I stopped needing proof of His presence and started noticing the quiet ways He whispered back through a friend’s text, through a stranger’s kindness, through the morning light that felt brand new.

The letter I never meant to write became the beginning of my return. And now, when faith feels thin, I write again not because He needs to hear it, but because I need to remember.

“Sometimes faith isn’t found in answered prayers, it’s found in the stillness after.”