God doesn’t meet us in striving. He meets us in the stillness

Last summer, I discovered a love for running. Don’t worry – this isn’t an evangelistic pitch to get you hitting the pavement. But stick with me; we’re going somewhere.

I’d run before, even completed a marathon, but a conversation with my friend Bianca changed everything. She told me she’d started running, and I asked, somewhat predictably: “How far? How fast?” She smiled and said: “I have no idea.” She didn’t track anything. She just ran, slowly, listening to her body and for the joy of it. “Running slow helps you run further – and, eventually, faster,” she said. 

That stuck with me. So, I decided to give it a try. No apps, no goals – just me and the streets. At first it felt awkward, even pointless. But soon, something shifted. I found myself enjoying the rhythm, the sweat, the sense of being alive. Running in silence became contemplative. Prayerful, even. I started to notice the texture of the road, the shape of the trees. It was like rediscovering the world through a child’s eyes. It wasn’t just exercise anymore; it was an adventure.

Then we moved to London and, on my first run in our new neighbourhood, I got lost. I took a wrong turn and ended up disorientated, in a maze of streets and housing estates. Normally, I’d just check my phone, but I’d deliberately left it at home to escape distraction. As I wandered, hoping to find something familislar, I thought about how easy it is to feel lost – not just geographically, but emotionally and spiritually. How often do we find ourselves in a meeting, conversation or even a quiet moment, feeling unmoored? We’re physically ‘here’ but somehow disconnected, unsure of where we really are.

In Genesis, there’s a beautiful image of God walking with Adam and Eve “in the cool of the day” (3:8). But after their disobedience, they hid in shame. God called out: “Where are you?” (v9). Of course, he knew where they were; it was they who’d lost themselves. 

Recently, I’ve adopted a simple, contemplative practice that helps me reconnect. It starts with a pause and a few deep breaths, becoming aware of the steady rise and fall of my chest – the breath that sustains me. Then I ask myself:

• Where am I in my heart? What emotions am I carrying? Am I anxious, excited, content? Naming these feelings brings clarity.

• Where am I in my body? Am I relaxed, tense or tired? Do I need rest or nourishment? Even something as simple as noticing I’m thirsty and getting a glass of water grounds me.

• Where am I in my mind? Are my thoughts scattered or focused? Am I overthinking, or feeling calm and present? This gives me a clearer picture of where I am, not just physically, but in the fullness of my being. 

Then, I make a simple statement: “Here I am, as I am. I am a witness and a participant. I am open to receive and open to give.” From here, I sit in silence, allowing space for God to speak. St John of the Cross said: “It is best to learn to silence the faculties…so that God may speak.” 

This silence, though countercultural, creates room for transformation. It’s a way of stepping out of the distractions and into the present, where God’s love awaits us. Julian of Norwich wrote: “We are so preciously loved by God that we cannot even comprehend it.” This practice is a way of leaning into that love, letting it shape us. It’s not about striving or fixing – it’s about being found. God’s call: “Where are you?” invites us to locate ourselves and respond, simply and honestly: “Here I am.”

Through this, I’ve learned that the life we long for is often already ours. We just need to slow down, take a deep breath and find it.