The Quiet Chair

She didn’t mean to sit down to pray.

It started as just sitting.

The chair by the window had always been her place to think, not to feel. But tonight, she sat down and felt everything. The anger. The shame. The exhaustion.

She looked out at the dark sky and whispered something that wasn’t really a prayer. More like a growl.

“You let it happen.”
 

She didn’t expect an answer.

She just needed to say it.
Because she was mad.
Mad at the silence.
Mad at the waiting.
Mad that the world had been so cruel, and God—if He was there—did nothing to stop it.

“I trusted You.”
 

The words came out sharper than she meant.

Then came the whisper inside her head:

"Maybe that’s why He’s quiet. Maybe I’ve gone too far."
 

She hadn’t prayed in weeks. Or was it months?
Too much time. Too many mistakes. Too much guilt.

“I don’t deserve to be heard.”
 

She said it out loud, just to hear how it sounded.
It hurt worse than she expected.
But it felt true.

She stood up. Thought about walking away.

But something held her in the chair.

Maybe the ache.
Maybe the memory of a time when she did believe.
Maybe just… stubborn hope.

She sat back down, clenched her fists, and looked up.

“I don’t even want to try again.”
 

Tears welled. Not the pretty kind.

Just quiet ones. Hot. Heavy.

She didn’t fold her hands. She didn’t bow her head.
She just let the tears fall.

And in that moment—without words, without faith, without answers—
something holy settled into the room.

She wasn’t fixed.
She wasn’t “better.”
But she was still here.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe just showing up to the chair
was a kind of prayer.