It’s been a bit loud in my head lately.
There’s been a lot going on – exciting things, good things, stuff I’m really grateful for. The Growing with God taster sessions are starting, new ideas are beginning to take shape, and life seems to be filling up with all sorts of things that matter. But somewhere in the middle of it all, I’ve found myself quietly losing the one thing that usually helps me make sense of everything:
Writing.
Writing has always been one of the ways I deal with life. I don’t just write to communicate – I write to cope. To process. To find clarity. To figure out what I’m really thinking or feeling. It’s a bit like laying out all the jumbled pieces and slowly beginning to see the pattern. And when I can’t or don’t write…I feel a bit unanchored.
So why, and how, am I writing this now?
I think I started, in the chaos of my brain, by asking myself a simple question:
What am I noticing?
That’s where I often try to begin when I feel overwhelmed. Not with a to-do list. Not with a clever idea. Just that. What am I noticing?
And here’s what I’m noticing.
– My brain is noisy.
– I seem to be carrying a lot of stuff.
– I keep wanting to write, but nothing’s quite landing.
– I sit down to begin, and all I hear is…static.
And maybe that’s where I should begin – because that word static has stuck with me.
Like when you’re scrolling through radio stations (and yes, I know I’m only 25, but I was born in that beautiful in-between era where not everything was digital yet – we still had static now and then). That crackling hum, the sound that means something’s trying to come through, but you’re not quite tuned in yet.
Or even better – when the TV aerial wasn’t quite in properly and the image went all pixelated and jagged, that strange almost-black-and-white, not-quite-colour blur. A picture trying to appear, but not quite coming through.
That’s what it feels like inside me, right now.
Not silent. Not peaceful. Just…fuzzy. A kind of mental noise that makes it hard to think clearly. To hear clearly. To create clearly.
And in that noticing, another gentle question appeared – one I’ve learned not to rush:
What might God be saying to me in this?
I’m not sure I have a perfect answer. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe God isn’t trying to shout over the static. Maybe God is in the static. Patient. Present. Waiting for me to notice. Not waiting for me to write the blog post. Not waiting for me to pull it together or get it all sorted. Just waiting for me to slow down enough to hear that quiet nudge that says: “Hey – I’m still here - you’re still loved here. Even in the noise.”
As I sit here writing these words down, there’s something else I’ve started to notice. The tumble dryer’s going in the background – that soft, rhythmic rumble that breaks the silence without ever fully entering your awareness.
But it’s not just noise I’m noticing.
It’s the other kind of static that’s been catching my attention too – the electric kind.
I don’t know if this happens to you, but sometimes, after I’ve folded the dry washing, I’ll touch something and get that short, sharp zap. A crack of static electricity – a little shock that makes your hand jerk and your whole body wake up for a second.
And it’s got me thinking.
Sometimes, I fold the washing on autopilot. I’ll go through the motions – fold, stack, repeat – completely unaware of what I’m doing. It’s only when that little jolt of static hits that I actually wake up to the moment I’m in.
And I wonder:
What might God be saying in that?
Because sometimes, I think God is like that static shock.
Not loud. Not dramatic. But a sudden, quiet jolt (unless you squeal like me!) – something that interrupts the autopilot and brings us back into awareness.
A moment that makes us stop. A moment that says: “Hey – you’re here. I’m here. What’s going on?”
And so I’m left wondering again:
Has writing – the thing I love, the thing I turn to – become something I sometimes do on autopilot?
And is this strange, wordless season I’ve been in actually a kind of static shock?
A jolt. A pause. A reminder that I’ve drifted. Not far. But just far enough to stop noticing. Maybe this quiet spell – this fuzziness, this block, this internal noise – isn’t failure. Maybe it’s an invitation.
To return. To recentre. To be reminded that God is still here, in and amongst it all.
So if this post isn’t tidy or finished or particularly profound – I’m pretty sure that’s okay.
It’s an offering, from the static. A few words that managed to make it through. A slow return to attentiveness, to presence, to God.
Maybe you’ve felt it too – the fuzz, the blur, the gentle jolt. If so, you’re not alone.
Josh | A Curious Follower
Here are a few gentle questions I’m sitting with, maybe you are too:
– What am I noticing right now?
– Where in my life am I running on autopilot?
– Where is the noise loud – and what’s underneath it?
A Curious Follower is a space for anyone who’s learning to slow down, live with intention, and follow the quiet tug of something deeper.
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