The Prayer I Couldn't Say
Share
Sis,
I need to tell you about the prayer that saved me, even though I never spoke a single word.
It was months after my mother died, and I was living in what I can only describe as a love vacuum. You know that feeling when someone so central to your world is gone that it seems like they took all the love and the capacity for love with them? That was me.
I felt hollow. Empty. Like love was this foreign concept I used to understand but couldn't quite remember how to access anymore.
People kept telling me to pray about it. To take it to God. To find comfort in Scripture. And I wanted to, I really did. But every time I tried to form words, they felt inadequate. How do you pray when your heart feels like it's been excavated? How do you find words for a loss that has no language?
The Love Vacuum
The mornings were the worst. I'd wake up with that split second of forgetting, and then the weight of reality would crash down all over again. She was gone. The person who loved me most in this world, who knew me before I knew myself, who was my soft place to land, was just... gone.
I started wearing a bracelet with the word "love" engraved on it and a necklace with a heart, hoping somehow they would draw love back to me. It sounds silly now, but when you're desperate for any connection to love, you'll try anything.
Friends and family meant well, but their attempts to comfort me often included phrases like "She's in a better place" or "God needed another angel" or "You need to celebrate her life, not mourn her death." These words, though kindly meant, felt like pressure to grieve differently, faster, more spiritually.
But my grief wasn't pretty or quotable or Instagram-worthy. It was messy and long and sometimes angry.
When Words Won't Come
One particular evening, I was sitting on my couch feeling that familiar heaviness. I knew I should pray. I knew I should talk to God about what I was going through. But every time I tried to form words, they felt empty, inadequate, almost insulting to the depth of what I was experiencing.
How do you explain to God that you feel like you're drowning in your own life? How do you articulate that love feels like a foreign language you used to speak fluently but can't remember anymore?
So I just sat there. And then the tears came.
Not the pretty, single-tear-rolling-down-the-cheek kind of crying you see in movies. The ugly, chest-heaving, can't-catch-your-breath kind that makes your face puffy and your eyes burn.
I cried for the conversations I'd never have with her again. I cried for the advice I'd never get, the hugs I'd never feel, the way she'd never again answer the phone with that excited voice when she saw my name on the caller ID.
I cried because I felt guilty for being angry that she left. I cried because I felt selfish for wanting her back. I cried because grief is exhausting and I was tired of being tired.
And somewhere in the middle of that messy, wordless breakdown, I realized something profound: This was my prayer.
The Prayer of Tears
The tears weren't a failure to pray properly. They were the most honest prayer I could offer.
God wasn't waiting for me to compose eloquent sentences about my loss. He wasn't expecting me to quote Scripture or find the silver lining or be grateful for the "time I had with her." He was simply present in my pain, receiving my tears as the sacred offering they were.
I think sometimes we believe prayer has to be words. That it has to be structured or theological or at least coherent. But what if our most powerful prayers are the ones we can't speak? What if God hears the language of tears more clearly than the language of theology?
That night, I didn't ask God to take away my grief or speed up my healing. I didn't bargain with Him or beg Him to bring her back. I just sat in His presence and let my heart break openly, trusting that somehow He was holding the pieces.
The Long, Arduous Process
I wish I could tell you that after that night, everything changed. That I woke up the next morning with renewed faith and peaceful acceptance. But healing doesn't work that way, does it?
The love vacuum didn't fill overnight. The grief didn't transform into gratitude with a single prayer. It was a long, arduous process of learning to feel love again, to trust that it still existed in the world even though the primary source of it in my life was gone.
But that night of wordless prayer became a turning point, not because it fixed everything, but because it gave me permission to grieve without performing. To be broken without being ashamed. To meet God in my mess instead of waiting until I could clean myself up first.
Permission to Take Your Time
Here's what I want you to know if you're in your own season of loss, whether it's the death of someone you love, the end of a relationship, a job loss, a health crisis, or any other kind of goodbye:
It's okay to take your time.
You don't have to heal on anyone else's timeline. You don't have to find the lesson or the blessing or the silver lining right now. You don't have to pray in complete sentences or have faith that feels unshakeable.
Sometimes the most holy thing you can do is just show up to God exactly as you are, wordless and broken, and let your tears tell the story your mouth can't speak.
God isn't waiting for you to get better at grief. He's not grading your prayers or timing your healing. He's simply present with you in the pain, receiving whatever you can offer, even if all you can offer is tears.
The Invitation
Maybe you're in a season where words feel impossible. Maybe you've been putting pressure on yourself to pray "properly" or heal "correctly" or find meaning in your pain before you're ready.
Can I give you permission to stop trying so hard?
Your tears are prayer enough. Your presence is offering enough. Your honest pain is worship enough.
God sees you in the love vacuum. He knows the depth of your loss. And He's not rushing you to the other side of it.
Take your time. Grieve at your own pace. And know that every tear you cry is a prayer He hears and holds.
A Gentle Reminder
The bracelet with "love" engraved on it? I still wear it sometimes. Not because I need to draw love to me anymore, but because it reminds me of how far I've come. Love did return, slowly and in new forms. But it took time, and that time mattered.
Your healing will come too. But it doesn't have to come today. And it doesn't have to look like anyone else's.
What matters is that you're here, that you're feeling, that you're allowing yourself to be human in your pain.
That's prayer enough.
With love and understanding for wherever you are today,
Kalyn
Are you in a season where words feel impossible? I see you, and your tears are prayer enough. Drop a heart in the comments if this resonated with you.
If this reflection brought you comfort, you might also find solace in:
- My collection of journals designed for processing life's difficult seasons with grace
- Joining my email family for gentle encouragement when words are hard to find
- Exploring what faith-based support might look like during your own season of healing
Kalyn Fahie is a faith-based life coach and author who believes that our most broken prayers often become our biggest breakthroughs. She writes from her home in St. Thomas, USVI, where she's learning that healing happens on God's timeline, not ours.