When the Mountain Wont Move: Faith in the Silence

Today, I'm writing from a place of weakness—literally and spiritually. My lungs are tight with chronic asthma, every breath a battle, and my body is drained. I’ve asked my little one’s father to take him for a few days so I can rest, but my heart aches with the emptiness. I miss him terribly. I walked two steps this morning and had to stop—I just couldn’t breathe. And in that moment, I cried out, “God, where are You?”

I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve laid my addictions and struggles at the feet of Jesus more times than I can count. I’ve heard stories of miraculous deliverance—how one moment someone was drowning in addiction and the next, they were free. No cravings, no withdrawals. Just gone. And I wonder, what about me?

Am I doing something wrong? Is there something in my bloodline that’s blocking my breakthrough? Haven’t I asked, haven’t I begged? Doesn’t God say, “Ask and you shall receive?” Then why do I feel like all I’m receiving is silence?

My home is in disarray, my body is sick, my heart is tired. I wanted to be at homecell tonight—to be in the presence of people who carry the fire of the Holy Spirit, who seem to walk so closely with God. I crave that fire. I long for His presence in a way that burns in my bones. And yet, here I am—struggling with an addiction I hate, stuck in a cycle of failed attempts to eat healthy, coughing my way through prayers, and asking… why?

Maybe, just maybe, God is asking me to be still. Maybe He’s saying, “Let me carry you.” But it’s hard when the silence feels like abandonment. When your husband is still stuck in his addiction. When the finances don’t stretch. When the healing doesn’t come.

They say, “Have faith.” And I do. But what happens when the mountain won’t move? When your faith feels like it’s being tested not by trials but by silence?

I don’t have the answers today. But I do know this: even when we don’t feel Him, God is still present. Even when the healing doesn’t come the way we want, He is still healer. Even when the fire seems dim, the flame is not out.

Faith isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s lying on the floor, sick and exhausted, whispering “I trust You” through tears. Sometimes it’s surrendering the craving one more time. Sometimes it’s praying even when you don’t hear a response.

If you're in a season like mine, I want you to know you’re not alone. This is faith too—the in-between, the not-yet, the silence. And even here, especially here, God is working.

So I’ll keep whispering. I’ll keep praying. I’ll keep believing. Because even if the mountain hasn’t moved yet, I know the One who made the mountain. And He sees me. He sees you too.