I found myself in tears again, sitting at the table with my head in my hands. I feel like I’ve downed a cocktail mixed of desperation and anxiety. It floods my veins with fear of the future. I hunger and thirst for wisdom with my never-ending prayer: “Lord, I don’t know how to parent this child.” I research and read, plumbing the depths of neurodivergence, chasing the neural pathways of my child’s brain that race and skip and jump and crash and burn. Palms up, I plead with God, “Help me know how to help him.”
Impulsivity, standoffs, broken toys, principal meetings, teacher emails, hyper-fixations, forever stimuli-seeking, loneliness. But also—long hugs, insatiable curiosity, profound intelligence, adventuresome spirit, deep feelings, dazzling smile. I sit at the kitchen table, tears dotting the wooden surface. “I don’t even know what to pray, Lord. I’m just here because I’m desperate. Again.” I envision my boy at twenty-five, dazzling smile and big life plans. “We made it, Mom,” I can almost hear him say it. I know the Lord is keeping me here at this table in prayer until He releases me.
I have ordained all your son’s days. Trust Me with them.
_______
I face my open journal again. Pen in hand, I’m reliving the exchange. It was an awkward conversation that made me feel uncomfortable, and though it ended with my conscience clear, I wanted to roll it in my mind until I’m the hero of the story wrongly-told. Tamping down the imaginary comebacks I’d concocted a day too late, I ask the Lord to keep me soft instead. My heart is one part compassion, one part revenge. No matter where I turn in Scripture, His words uproot and upend me.
Pray until you love her.
The gentle answer turns away my wrath. Pray without ceasing, I know. I must.
_______
I burst into tears of frustration at midnight. For thirty days, my brain won’t comply. It will not still, it will not rest. I lie awake for hours and hours. I’m chasing sleep on a hamster wheel. I cannot find it, cannot buy it, cannot speak it into being. I pray and plead and pray and plead. “Lord, why won’t You let me rest?” To be honest, my nights of pain were easier to bear and understand than this. This feels torturous. This makes me desperate. And, this must be accomplishing something I do not understand. I do not know what the Lord could possibly do with the mental fog enveloping me during the day or the frustrating sleeplessness that suffocates me at night.
Stay close to Me.
It’s the answer I will always hear in the middle of the night. So I stay close because where else can I go? He alone has the words of life.
The voice of the Lord is quiet, usually. It’s not an earthquake, a storm, or a fire. It’s still and small. And it’s familiar. It’s Scripture buried deep in my heart, resurfacing when I need Him to remind me He’s near. When I need to know what to do, when I need to remember that obedience is the way forward and that prayer accomplishes much.
Nothing I hear in the night is new. But I hear His words anew in every desperate moment. I feel them rising from the depths of Scripture planted in my soul long ago. They answer my questions. They keep me in prayer. His Words, right where I need them. Ephesians 4 and 6, John 6 and 21, 1 Thessalonians 5, Romans 12, Psalm 119. Little seeds of truth burst through the soil of desperation, bearing fruit when I am so desperately hungry and weak.
So often we want to hear from the Lord, to recognize His voice in the midst of our desperate prayers. But to hear Him, we have to know His voice. Sheep recognize the voice of their shepherd, and they trust him. If we want to hear the Lord’s voice, we have to learn what it sounds like. That means living in His Word so that His Word lives in us. So I bury His Word in my heart. And I have to trust that the Word will do the work my heart needs when I need it most. In the night, after a fight, in the aftermath of confrontation, in the quiet, broken moments of my weaknesses. His Word won’t return void, I’m telling you.
If we want to hear the Lord’s voice, we have to learn what it sounds like. That means living in His Word so that His Word lives in us. Share on X
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
