“I am worn out from my groaning.
All night long I flood my bed with weeping
and drench my couch with tears.”
—Psalm 6:6 (NIV)
[ From: 2 Samuel, especially chapters 13 through 19 ]
He was a man after God’s heart.
But tonight, David couldn’t even feel his own heart.
He lay awake in the shadows of his palace—once filled with music, now echoing with silence. His son, Absalom, had turned against him. The people he led had followed the rebellion. Trusted advisors had become traitors. The throne felt cold beneath him.
But the worst of it wasn’t the betrayal.
It was the silence.
No word from the prophet. No whisper in the night. No fire from heaven or still small voice.
Only the deafening quiet of a God who had once spoken so clearly—and now did not.
David had known the touch of the Spirit.
He had danced with joy before the ark of the covenant.
He had walked into battle with nothing but a sling and a song.
He had heard God call him from the fields, guide him through caves, convict him in secret.
But this was different.
This was grief that had settled into his bones.
Regret that replayed like a slow, burning fire.
And a question that kept haunting him: Is this my fault?
He remembered the rooftop. The woman. The lie. The death. The choices that led to all this.
Maybe I deserved this.
Maybe God had finally had enough.
Maybe the silence was the answer.
And still, he prayed.
Not with power. Not with confidence. But with cracked lips and tear-stained cheeks.
He prayed because he had nowhere else to go.
He wept until the sheets were soaked. Until the psalms inside him felt more like sobs. Until faith stopped being a feeling—and became a decision.
He reached—not up, but inward.
To that place where real faith is born.
Not the kind that wins battles.
The kind that survives heartbreak.
Not the kind you post on a wall.
The kind you whisper through clenched teeth at 3 a.m.
The kind of faith that says:
“Even if You slay me, my hope remains in You.”
That’s not theology.
That’s desperation clinging to a thread of hope.
David didn’t understand God in that moment.
But he knew Him.
And sometimes, that is the only rest you get—not understanding, not relief, but knowing.
Knowing that the God who was with you in the light is still God in the dark.
Even when silent.
Even when it hurts.
So David kept writing.
Kept singing.
Kept believing.
Not because life was okay.
But because God was still God.
He was all David had left.
And somehow, that was enough.
You may not be a king with a crumbling kingdom, but maybe your world feels just as broken.
A child has walked away.
A diagnosis has shattered your plans.
A prayer has gone unanswered.
And like David, you’re lying awake, asking if God still sees you.
Reflection Question
What do you do when God is silent, and your pain feels louder than His promises?
Prayer
Father, when the grief is too deep and the silence too long, don’t let me walk away.
Teach me to dig deep.
To hold on, not because I understand, but because I know You.
You are my Father.
You are my peace.
You are all I have—and that is enough.