A reflection on absence, resilience, and hidden grace
There are seasons when the soul feels accompanied. Life flows with a quiet ease. Prayer feels natural, and the presence of the sacred—however we understand it—feels tangible. Moments of stillness are rich, the world seems to speak in symbols and silences, and even the difficult days are softened by a sense of something greater walking beside us.
But then, without warning, that sense disappears. The comfort that once held us fades, and the path ahead begins to feel dry and uncertain. It can feel like losing something precious—though nothing visible has changed. This shift can be confusing, even disheartening. And yet, it’s a familiar experience to anyone who has walked a spiritual path for any length of time.
In older traditions, especially among mystics and contemplatives, this movement between closeness and distance was not treated as failure or spiritual decline. Instead, it was seen as part of the rhythm of transformation. Just as the natural world moves through seasons, so too does the inner life. The warmth of connection gives way to the coolness of absence, not as punishment, but as preparation.
The question is not whether we will experience these shifts. The question is how we will respond to them.
There is a subtle danger in believing that divine comfort—or a sense of presence—is something we can earn. If we are not careful, we begin to associate spiritual dryness with personal failure, or worse, assume that the more we suffer, the more pleasing we must be to God. This kind of thinking distorts the path and feeds a theology of suffering that is neither healthy nor true. In the book of Acts, Peter learns that God does not show partiality. Faith itself is enough. We are already held in divine regard—not because of how much we endure, but because we are loved.
At the same time, there is wisdom in the way absence can shape us. When the sense of connection is strong, it is easy to remain faithful. But when it withdraws, we are invited into a different kind of trust—one that doesn’t rely on feeling, but on orientation. This isn’t about emotional highs. It’s about choosing to continue, quietly and steadily, in the direction of love.
Those who have walked this path before us often speak of divine comfort as a gift—something freely given, not deserved. And like most gifts, it doesn’t always arrive on demand. Nor does it stay indefinitely. The mystics accepted its coming with gratitude and its leaving with humility, not assuming they had failed, but recognising that even absence has something to teach.
Over time, these patterns reveal something deeper. When comfort disappears, it isn’t necessarily a sign that we’ve done something wrong. It may simply mean that we are being invited to grow—beyond dependency on spiritual sensation, beyond the need for constant affirmation, and into a more mature, rooted faith.
When this happens, the ordinary supports we often turn to—friends, books, music, even prayer itself—may feel strangely flat. But that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their value. It means we are being asked to listen more deeply, to rest in a kind of spaciousness that cannot be filled with sound or activity.
Even the most faithful, the most “spiritually advanced,” have experienced this withdrawal. No one is immune. The early Christian texts, including the Psalms and the stories of the saints, are filled with accounts of those who knew both the nearness and the distance of the divine. They didn’t see these shifts as rejection, but as part of the mystery of relationship.
And in that mystery, something surprising often emerges. What feels like abandonment becomes the ground of endurance. What feels like emptiness becomes the spaciousness in which a new depth is born. Eventually, the comfort returns—but it is no longer the same. It comes not as reward, but as renewal. It returns not to prove anything, but to affirm that nothing was ever truly lost.
If you are in a time of spiritual dryness, or if comfort has disappeared from your inner landscape, do not assume you are far from the divine. Do not conclude that you’ve been forgotten. In many ways, this may be the very place where your faith becomes real—quiet, humble, and unshakably rooted.
The Spirit, as the ancient writers often said, comes and goes according to her own rhythm. But she is never truly gone. She is simply inviting you to discover what still remains when all the outer signs fall away.
And what remains is enough.
Feeling a little lost?
Soul Guidance
Ancient Whispers 
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