When Love Hurts and Heaven is Quiet

Joseph R. Fritchley

I am a theologian at heart. That is simply who I am. On more than one occasion, I have intentionally and sometimes unintentionally silenced my buddies during lively sports discussions by interjecting existential questions about the deeper meaning behind their passions. They have always been gracious with me. It's just that, if I talk, I would rather it be about something significant—something that has the power to shape my life and the lives of those I'm speaking with. 

I want my words to matter.

To touch eternity.

To draw hearts toward something greater than the fading applause of this world.

And what could be greater than speaking of the Eternal God?

The One who governs galaxies and yet knows the number of hairs on my head? The God who sits outside of time and space, sovereign over every molecule, yet who loves and adores me personally?

The One who, because of my faith in what Christ did, promises that fifty trillion years from now, I will still be alive, wrapped in a world made perfect by His hand?

A God like this is worth every word.

Every breath.

I share this because it frames a quieter agony—the ache when that same God feels silent.

When prayers seem to vanish into the ceiling.

When I face the strain of marriage—the aching distance, the misunderstandings—and heaven itself seems closed to me. 

There are aspects of life I seem to understand so little, and few things test the soul more than facing marital struggles while God seems silent.

What do you do when your marriage feels heavy and God feels hidden?

 What do we do when heaven seems closed and the person closest to us feels far away?

How do we persevere when life feels like we wake up inside a bad dream, where everything seems out of control, and we feel utterly powerless?

It is here I find a crucial word. A word I repeat often to couples sitting across from me in my office. A word I must remind myself of almost daily:

Feeling

Feelings are a gift from God, but they must stay in their proper lane.

Feelings are a gift—a wild, beautiful, unruly gift from God.

But they were never meant to be sovereign.

They are not the lens through which truth is seen.

They are not the compass by which faith is steered.

Feelings tell part of the story, but not the whole.

They cry out, but they do not have the final word.

When God feels silent, He is still speaking.

When marriage feels broken and left for dead, there is still breath, and where there is breath, there is hope, there is life.

When life feels adrift, the hand of the Eternal still anchors all things.

Faith is not the denial of feelings; it is the refusal to be ruled by them.

Feelings are never meant to replace facts.

They are never meant to replace faith.

Feelings can inform us, but they must not define us.

When God feels silent, it does not mean He is absent.

When marriage feels broken, it does not mean it is beyond hope.

When life feels out of control, it does not mean the King has abdicated His throne.

Faith calls us to hold fast to what is true even when feelings scream otherwise.

And sometimes, the holiest thing we can do in a season of silence is to simply hold on—hold on to the hand of God we cannot see but know is still there.  Hold on to the covenant we made to our spouse before God, even when emotions ebb and flow (Lord have mercy!!).

God’s silence is not His absence.

It may be His invitation—an invitation to press deeper into faith, into perseverance, and into love that is not anchored in momentary emotion but in eternal truth.

So if today you find yourself in a silent season—in marriage, in prayer, in life—

Hold on my friend!

Not to what you feel,

But to what you know.

(I know this is a million times easier to say than do.)

Hold on to the covenant you made.

To the Savior who holds you even when you cannot hear His whisper.

To the truth that silence is not absence, and delay is not abandonment.

Sometimes the most profound love is revealed, not in the brilliance of day, but in the trembling steps we dare to take through the night.

“You don’t have to wait until you feel ready. Faith was made for this kind of dark. If your personal life or marriage is unraveling and your heart feels stretched thin, restoration’s not too late. I’d be honored to walk with you toward what still can be.”

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