There are moments in life when everything seems to stop. Not by choice, but by necessity. A diagnosis. A loss. A phone call that changes everything. Or, sometimes, a quiet realization that the pace we’ve been keeping is no longer sustainable. In those moments—those interruptions—we often feel disoriented, even afraid. But if we listen closely, there is something else waiting there in the silence. Something holy. Something eternal. In the pause, there is God.
We live in a world addicted to momentum. We pride ourselves on productivity, speed, and achievement. We fill our calendars, multitask our way through meals, and scroll endlessly in the spaces that used to be quiet. Even in spiritual practice, we often rush toward answers, looking for the next revelation, the next breakthrough. We forget that some of the most profound awakenings come not through motion—but through stillness.
Pausing doesn’t always feel spiritual at first. It can feel like failure. Like weakness. Like surrendering to the unknown. But perhaps that is the point. In the pause, our ego loses its grip. The masks we wear—of competence, of control, of constant motion—begin to fall away. And beneath all of that, we find what’s been waiting for us all along: God’s presence, not in the noise, but in the stillness between.
A Course in Miracles teaches us, “Be still an instant and go home with Him.” It’s not a call to inaction, but to realignment. When we pause—truly pause—we allow ourselves to remember what is real. We stop reacting. We start listening. We move from doing to being. And in that sacred space, something begins to shift. Not out there, but in here.
I have found this truth not just in scripture or theory, but in the quiet corners of my own life. After my cancer diagnosis, there were long days filled with stillness—not the kind I would have chosen, but the kind that chose me. At first, the silence felt cruel. I could no longer speak as I once had. My ministry, my voice, my identity—it all seemed to vanish. But slowly, something deeper emerged. I began to hear a voice that wasn’t my own. A presence that didn’t need words. In the stillness of my healing, God was not absent. God was more present than ever. The pause had become the sanctuary.
Many of us fear the pause because we confuse it with emptiness. We are terrified of the spaces we can’t fill. But as The Disappearance of the Universe reminds us, “When you no longer value what is not real, you will remember what is.” The pause strips away the illusions, leaving only what’s eternal. And in that quiet clarity, we rediscover our truest identity—not as doers or thinkers, but as beloved children of God.
Sometimes, we don’t choose the pause; it chooses us. A lost job. A broken relationship. A health scare. A moment of grief so sharp it takes our breath away. These aren’t punishments. They are invitations. They call us to stop running, to stop resisting, and to simply be. Not as a form of resignation, but as a radical act of trust. A sacred yielding. A willingness to say, “Here I am, Lord. Not my will, but Yours.”
The Urantia Book speaks of “the universal urge to rest.” Even Jesus withdrew from the crowds, seeking solitude in the hills, in gardens, on the water. He knew that true strength is found not in constant output, but in connection with Source. We, too, must find those places of rest—not just as escape, but as return. To pause is to return to ourselves. To realign with our Source. To remember that we are not alone, and we never have been.
We often ask God to speak louder. To show up in grand gestures. But what if the whisper is the message? What if the quiet is the answer? So many of our prayers are cries for clarity—but clarity doesn’t come from thinking harder. It comes from surrendering deeper. In the pause, we create space for wisdom to rise from within. Not forced, not manufactured—but revealed.
I think of the caterpillar in the chrysalis. It doesn’t rush. It dissolves. It becomes still. And in that sacred pause, it transforms into something it never imagined. We, too, are called to that kind of pause. To stop long enough for old identities to melt away, and new wings to form. The pause is not an end—it is a becoming.
There is great power in sacred stillness. But it takes courage to embrace it. Courage to stop striving. Courage to wait. Courage to trust that something holy is unfolding, even when nothing seems to be happening. But in the words of the mystics and saints who have walked this path before us: “Do not be afraid of the silence. For in the silence, God sings.”
If today you find yourself in a pause—whether chosen or forced—take heart. It is not a detour. It is not a punishment. It is a doorway. A sacred threshold. A moment where heaven brushes against earth and says, “Be still and know that I am God.”
Let the world rush on without you for a while. Let the noise pass. Turn inward. Rest. Breathe. Listen.
For in the pause, there is peace.
In the pause, there is truth.
In the pause, there is God.
