God Is Waiting for Your Reply

It was a quiet Tuesday morning when Evelyn sat by her bedroom window with a lukewarm cup of coffee, her hands cradling the mug like it was the only warmth she had left. The rain dripped steadily from the roof, tracing its way down the glass like tear tracks. Outside, the world moved on. Inside, she was stuck.

She had always believed in something greater. Not always church-going, not always full of answers—but she believed. Or used to.

It had been six months since her younger brother Michael passed away. A drunk driver. A rainy night. A senseless ending. She hadn’t prayed since the funeral. What was there to say? God knew what was in her heart. Or at least He should’ve.

Her grief wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Heavy. Like a thick coat that she couldn't take off. Friends had stopped checking in regularly. Life had resumed its rhythm for everyone else. But Evelyn stayed paused in the silence.

One night, unable to sleep, she opened her notebook. The same one she’d used to journal in years ago when life felt lighter. She flipped through the pages, most of them filled with prayers—pleas for direction, scribbled thank-yous, raw reflections.

The last prayer she had written was dated the night before Michael’s accident.

She stared at it for a long while. Her hands trembled, and something deep within her chest ached. She took a pen and wrote just two words:

“Still angry.”

And then she closed the book.

Days passed. She carried on. Went to work. Answered texts. Nodded through conversations. But the notebook stayed close, like a ghost from another life, whispering.

One Sunday, while walking through the park to clear her head, she passed an elderly man sitting alone on a bench. His clothes were worn but clean, his posture relaxed. As she passed, he looked up and smiled.

“Beautiful day,” he said.

She managed a small nod. Something about him made her pause.

He patted the space next to him. “Plenty of room to sit if you need to catch your breath.”

To her own surprise, she sat.

They didn’t talk for a long time. The sound of birds, distant laughter, and wind through trees filled the silence.

Eventually, the man spoke. “You look like you’re carrying something.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Grief,” he said gently. “It has a way of settling on the face.”

She turned away, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m fine,” she lied.

He smiled knowingly, not pushing. “Can I tell you something odd?”

She shrugged.

“I used to be angry at God. Real angry. Thought He abandoned me. My daughter died at sixteen. Cancer.”

Her eyes widened.

“I shut Him out for years,” he continued. “Didn’t pray. Didn’t go to church. Wouldn’t even say His name. Figured if He wanted to talk, He’d have to explain Himself first.”

“What changed?” she asked quietly.

“One night, I was sitting right here. Talking to my daughter out loud, like I often did. Telling her how much I missed her. I asked if she was okay—if there was anything left of her, wherever she might be.”

He paused.

“And something... warm filled my chest. Not like heat. More like peace. And a thought entered my head—clear as day: ‘I’m still here. Just waiting for you to answer.’”

Evelyn’s breath caught.

The man looked at her gently. “I think God speaks quietly. Not because He’s weak, but because He wants us to lean in. To listen. To choose the conversation.”

She stared at her hands. “But what if you have nothing good to say?”

He smiled. “He can handle anger. Doubt. Silence. But He can’t respond if you don’t pick up.”

They sat a while longer. When she finally stood to leave, he reached into his pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the reply starts with just showing up.”

She opened the note after she got home. It read:

Dear child,

I’m still here. Take your time. I love you.

—God

That night, Evelyn opened her notebook again. Her heart was still heavy, her mind still crowded with pain. But she picked up the pen anyway.

“Dear God,” she wrote, “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here.”

And something in the room shifted. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small, quiet release—like the first drop of water after a drought.

In the weeks that followed, Evelyn started writing daily. Not always to God. Sometimes to Michael. Sometimes to herself. But the notebook filled. Her heart did too, slowly.

She didn’t rush back into faith. Didn’t pretend the pain had disappeared. But she stopped ignoring the voice that had waited in the silence.

It was in the morning light on the window. In the laughter of children at the park. In the warmth of her coffee mug.

It was in the breath she took each day she chose to keep going.

God hadn’t moved. He had just been waiting—for her reply.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes we stop talking to God because life breaks us in ways we can’t explain. But silence doesn’t mean absence. Pain doesn’t mean punishment. And unanswered prayers are not always unacknowledged ones. Sometimes, all we need to do is reply—even if it’s messy, unsure, or angry. Healing begins with showing up. And God will always be there—patient, quiet, loving—waiting for your reply.