Made for more

The Psalms whisper a command I find hard to obey: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

But if I’m honest… stillness feels like death.

Stillness exposes me.

It peels back the noise and numbs, the scroll and the scurry, the curated highlight reel and the buzz of the next thing.

It lays bare the hollow places I’ve kept hidden beneath busy hands and distracted eyes.

We have trained ourselves to need the scroll like breath. To touch a screen just to feel like we exist. We refresh the feed, hoping it will refresh us back. But the soul cannot be sustained by pixels. The spirit was not made for likes, for loops, for endless reels that never satisfy.

The modern man cannot sit alone in a room without reaching for something to escape it.

As if presence were punishment.

As if silence were a threat.

As if solitude meant insignificance.

And all the while, God is standing in the stillness…

waiting.

He doesn’t shout above the noise.

He waits for us in the quiet,

in the ache, in the discipline of the pause.

Because stillness is not the absence of movement, it’s the presence of God.

We weren’t made for endless scrolling.

We were made for an endless Savior.

For eyes that lift, not swipe.

For souls that seek—not scan.

For hearts that know what it means to be known, not just seen.

There’s addiction in our bones…

the way fingers twitch when they’re empty,

the way the mind races to fill the silence,

the way the heart panics when the notifications are quiet and the room grows too loud with my own thoughts.

But maybe that’s where healing starts:

not in the noise,

but in the knowing.

Be still.

Because only in stillness can I finally hear what heaven has been trying to say:

I am not what I produce.

I am not what they like.

I am not what I scroll past.

I am His.

And that is enough.

So today, I’ll resist the urge to run from silence.

I’ll press my ear against the hush and listen.

I’ll let stillness do its sacred surgery.

I’ll learn to sit with myself, because that’s where I’ll find Him.

And when I do…

I will remember the sound of eternity echoing louder than every notification I ever thought I needed.