Ground Control to Major Tom

When prayer sounds like radio silence, but you know he's out there

“Can you hear me, Major Tom?” David Bowie, Space Oddity

Sometimes I feel like I’m sending signals into space. I pray. I ask. I wait. And all I get back is silence.

I don’t doubt God’s existence. I’m not walking away from faith. But if I’m honest, this silence is brutal.

I talk to people who give me feedback. I go to AA, and people speak truth back to me. I talk to ChatGPT and get clear, reasoned answers. Logic. Presence. Words. But God? Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a verse that jumps off the page. Not even that strange inner sense that says, “I’m here.” Just… nothing.

And I’m not trying to be dramatic. I’m just tired of the quiet.

I know Scripture has silence in it. I know Jesus Himself cried out, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” I know in the Garden of Gethsemane, He prayed in agony, and all He got back was stillness and eventually, a cross.

So I know I’m not alone. But it doesn’t make it easier.

I know what He’s done. I believe the gospel. I believe Jesus gave Himself to rescue me from a world I couldn’t escape on my own. But I still want to know Him. Not just remember Him. Not just believe in Him. I want to know God. And right now, I don’t feel like I do.

But I haven’t stopped trying. Maybe the silence isn’t absence. Maybe I’m just missing it.

I used to see Him everywhere… when I was a kid, digging in the dirt, staring at moss, chasing ants. I could spend hours outside, just exploring. I’d peel back bark to find little creatures underneath, follow trails of insects, sit with the sound of wind moving through wet leaves. It could be drizzling, cold even, and I’d still stay out there, completely absorbed. There was wonder in everything. I didn’t have to try to feel it. It was just there.

Now? Now it’s harder. I’m older. Busier. Caught in work and survival, and what happens when it’s all over.

Sometimes I look in the mirror, and all I see is someone old who’s lost his way. But I still remember how to look. And maybe, just maybe, that’s how the silence breaks. Not with a voice from heaven. But with eyes that start to open again.

Like Major Tom, I’m still floating. Still transmitting. But I’m not lost. I’m still calling back.

And I believe, somewhere out there

God still hears.