Lent 2026: Prayer – can you hear me?

Let’s talk about prayer.

After all, prayer is one of the central themes of Lent. And as Lent draws to a close, it feels like a good time to pause and explore it a little.

Prayer is one of the pillars of the Christian faith. A Christian who doesn’t pray will likely find the journey of faith much harder than one who prays regularly. Not because the road itself becomes easier, but because in prayer we are reminded that we do not walk it alone. There is something grounding about bringing our lives, our thoughts, our worries, before God.

But what about when that doesn’t seem to work? What about when you pray and hear… nothing? When it feels like your prayers have been swallowed by a black hole, never to be seen again. Or perhaps worse, like they bounce off an invisible ceiling, as though something is blocking the way.

Recently, I’ve been praying for something I’ve seen God do before. And this time… nothing. Not to sound arrogant, or as if I know better than God, but it felt like my prayer was simply ignored. If I’m honest, I felt angry. Frustrated.

Why pray if it makes no difference?

If that rings a bell for you, try not to worry. We’re in good company.
In the book of Daniel, we meet a prophet in exile who prays for understanding about a vision he has received. But he doesn’t just pray once and move on. He fasts and prays for three weeks, with no answer, no reassurance, no sign that he has even been heard.

And then, eventually, an angel appears. He tells Daniel that his prayer was heard on the very first day, but that a spiritual battle delayed the answer from reaching him.

Sometimes what feels like silence is not absence, but delay. Sometimes the answer is on its way, and perseverance is part of the journey.

But that’s not the only story Scripture gives us. When Paul writes to the Corinthians, he speaks about a “thorn in the flesh” that he has asked God to remove. We don’t know exactly what it is, only that he asks more than once… and God says no. Instead, God responds: “My grace is sufficient for you.”

Sometimes unanswered prayer is not delayed… it’s different. God is at work, but not in the way we hoped or expected. Neither of these are easy. Frustration, anger, hurt, disappointment… these are all natural responses when prayer seems to go unanswered. I know I’ve felt all of them at different points. And maybe you have too.

It leaves us with a choice. Do we keep praying and listening, choosing to trust in the character of God… or do we stop, because it feels like it makes no difference?

So where does that leave us? Somewhere in the middle, I think. Between knowing that God hears… and not always seeing the answer. The stories of Daniel and Paul don’t remove the tension, but they do remind us of something important: silence is not the same as absence. God may be working in ways we cannot see. Or he may be inviting us to trust him in ways we would never choose.

Neither is easy.

But perhaps prayer was never meant to be about getting the outcome we want. Perhaps it’s about staying connected to the God who holds us, even when we don’t understand him. So maybe the invitation is not to have perfect faith, or perfect words… but simply to keep showing up.

Thanks to Amaury Gutierrez @amaury_guti for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/person-raising-arms-rzmQOng8h8I

Lent 2026: Still there

Today was a good day. Not a remarkable day, or a life-changing day, just the kind of day where I get to the end, look back, and smile.

I was due to have lunch with a friend, but I arrived a little early and popped in to see another friend. She wasn’t expecting me, and watching her face light up was truly humbling, but also deeply good. There are some friendships that last, even over distance and time. They feel just as real, just as meaningful, even after months, or even years apart. They are still there, waiting for a chance to pick up where we left off.

This was one of those friendships.

I think one of the best things about this kind of friendship is that it doesn’t always need words. Sometimes, just enjoying each other’s company is life-giving.

It can be like that with prayer too. My spiritual director asked me what my prayer life looks like at the moment. “Quiet,” I said. “Like I’ve run out of words and energy, so I just sit in the quiet.”

Like my friendships, my relationship with God doesn’t always need words. I’ll admit, this kind of silent prayer won’t sustain me long term. But there is a place for it. When I’m drained and spent, when emotions feel too much, when there isn’t much left to give, it’s better to spend time with God in silence than not spend time with God at all.

Of course, I want to catch up with my friends, to hear what they’ve been doing and share my own news. But the most precious thing is simply being able to spend time with them. And if it’s that simple with friendship, why do I make prayer so complicated?

Maybe prayer doesn’t always need to be well-formed or carefully structured.
Maybe it doesn’t always need words at all. And perhaps this quiet is not the end of prayer, only a beginning again. A place to rest, to realign, to slowly find a rhythm that can sustain me beyond this season.

Because the truth is, God is still there. And maybe, gently and patiently, He is inviting me to be there too.

Thanks to Tori Wise @toriwisephoto for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/silhouette-of-2-person-standing-beside-fence-during-sunset-ckHD_wKiPAE

Lent 2026: Small enough to miss

Isn’t creation amazing? There are so many different things in the world, big and small, a kaleidoscope of colour. Sometimes it can be frightening, sometimes breathtaking. And sometimes, it can be a little depressing.

Today was grey and windy and wet. The sort of day where an umbrella is useless, so you get soaked to the skin. The kind of day where it’s probably wiser to stay indoors. But life doesn’t really allow for that, so I went out anyway.

Later, driving home, the wind had dropped and the rain had paused, at least for a while. It was late, the roads were quiet, and I wasn’t in a hurry. I was wondering what I would write about tonight. Nothing had particularly stood out, and if I’m honest, after yesterday, I felt like it needed to be something a little more hopeful.

As I turned into my road, my headlights landed on something small. A tiny mouse, huddled in the middle of the road. Now, if it had been in my house, I don’t think I would have been quite so taken with it. But there it was, small and defenceless, the kind of thing you could so easily miss if you were going a bit too fast, or not paying full attention.
I slowed down and drove around it.
And somehow, it seemed to get the message, scurrying off the road into the grass.

I carried on home, but it felt like a quietly significant moment, like God trying to speak.

It would have been so easy not to notice. So easy to be a little more distracted, a little more rushed. So easy for that tiny life to be gone, without me even realising.

And yet… it wasn’t. Nothing dramatic happened. No grand revelation. Just a small creature, and a small moment of paying attention.

But maybe that’s where hope lives. Not always in the big, obvious things. Not in the sweeping changes or the clear answers. Not even in ‘mountain-top encounters’.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that. Sometimes hope looks like slowing down. Like noticing what’s right in front of us. Like choosing care, almost without thinking about it.

A grey, wet day didn’t suddenly turn golden. Life didn’t become easier or clearer. But a small, easily missed creature made it safely to the side of the road.

And maybe that’s how hope often comes. Not in big, obvious interventions, but in quiet moments of care and attention. Small signs that the world is still being held. That not everything is as fragile as it feels. And for today, that feels like enough to trust that God is still at work, even here.

Thanks to Jonathan Göhner @jochieng1 for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/brown-rodent-on-brown-tree-trunk-LkaX_f9gg88

Lent 2026: No “but” required

There’s been a lot of change over the last couple of days. Or perhaps more accurately, I’ve come face to face with the results of change that has already been happening.

I’ve found myself returning to places that mean a great deal to me. Places woven into my story, not just geographically, but emotionally and spiritually too. There are people I love, rhythms I recognise, atmospheres that used to feel like home. Except… something has shifted.

I went back to a place so familiar I could have walked around it with my eyes closed. A place where I once knew people’s stories almost better than my own. A place where I poured in over a decade of heart and soul, of showing up, serving, building, loving.

And yet, this time, I felt like a visitor.
Not completely lost. Not unwelcome. But… not quite at home either. I could understand it if I’d been gone for years. If time had changed me as much. But it hasn’t even been a year.

And if I’m honest? It hurt.

I’m used to following moments like this with a neat, well-rehearsed ‘but’ sentence:
“…but God is clearly at work there.”
“…but it’s good change.”
“…but it’s all part of His plan.”

And those things might well be true. But there’s another sentence I don’t let myself say out loud.

It sucks.

It sucks to see something you nurtured, something you helped shape, something you gave yourself to, no longer look or feel the way it once did.
It sucks to stand in a place that once fit you so naturally, and feel slightly out of place in it.

Both of these things can be true at the same time. God is at work. And this is hard.

Earlier, a friend told me she’s been praying through the Psalms, averaging five a day, working through the whole collection each month. “There’s everything in there,” she said. “Every emotion, every situation.” And she’s right.

The Psalms don’t rush to tidy things up. They don’t always add a neat “but” on the end. They don’t silence grief with quick reassurance. They let joy be joyful, anger be loud, sorrow be unfiltered.

They tell the truth.

Sometimes I think I forget that I’m allowed to do the same. To say: this is good, and God is at work… and also to say: this is painful.
Or even, just for a moment, to drop the optimistic “but” altogether.

So here is the truth, without qualification: I went back to somewhere that means a lot to me this weekend, and it felt completely different. And that was hard.

And somehow, that honesty isn’t a failure of faith. It’s an invitation. Because the God who is at work in all the change… is also the God who meets me in the middle of it, not asking me to tidy up my feelings before I come, but simply to bring them as they are.

No “but” required.

Thanks to Jonny Gios @supergios for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/a-church-with-rows-of-chairs-and-a-stage-1OQpr0LCygs

Lent 2026: Borrowed faith

Term has come to an end now, and one of the things I will miss most is saying morning prayer together. Not because I enjoy early mornings (I definitely do not!) but because there’s something about being held, and holding others, in prayer.

Most of us will have times in our lives when faith feels fragile. When coming to pray is an act of will rather than something that flows naturally. When the words don’t quite match what’s going on inside. That’s part of the beauty of morning prayer.

The words we use are being said by Christians all over the country. We’re stepping into something bigger than ourselves. And when we sit in our own small gathering, saying those same words, we’re not doing it alone.

Sometimes, saying the words is all we can manage. And that’s OK. Because in those moments, we are being carried by the prayers of others. It’s a bit like borrowing a cup of sugar from a neighbour. You’ve run out. You don’t have what you need. But someone else does. And they’re willing to share.

Faith can be like that. There have been times in my life where I’ve “borrowed faith” more than I’ve generated it. Times when I couldn’t make sense of what God was doing, or why something had happened. Part of me wanted to believe… but my emotions made it hard to hold onto that belief.

And in those moments, the faith of others carried me.

If you’ve seen The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, you might remember the scene near the end. Frodo and Sam are on Mount Doom, so close to the finish. But Frodo can’t go on. He’s exhausted, spent, completely emptied.

Sam looks at him and says, “I can’t carry it for you… but I can carry you.” And he lifts him up.

Ok, maybe it’s not quite that dramatic in our own lives. But the truth behind it still holds. I am so grateful for the “Sams” in my life. You know, the people who carry us when we can’t keep going on our own. People who hold faith for us when ours feels thin and fragile.

And perhaps, at other times, we get to be that for someone else. To hold them in prayer. To speak hope when they can’t find the words. To quietly, faithfully, carry them for a while.

Because faith was never meant to be a solo journey. It’s something we share. Something we lend and borrow. Something that, at its best, holds us together when we might otherwise fall apart. And maybe that, too, is part of God’s plan.

That when our faith runs low… we are not left to manage on our own.

Thanks to Patricia Prudente @apsprudente for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/two-woman-standing-on-seashore-near-sea-nBhgNrIPhhw

Lent 2026: God at 63mph

Today was a looooooong day. Eight hours on the road. Yes, that includes stops at service stations, but they’re not the most relaxing of places. There’s something oddly deflating about the sat nav calmly announcing, “Continue for 100 miles.”

I’ve started measuring journeys not in miles, but in songs. How many tracks until the next instruction? That feels more manageable somehow.

Now, I have a friend who always remembers to pray before a long car journey.

That’s not me.

I tend to set off, join the motorway, and then somewhere between lanes and lorries remember to send up a quick arrow prayer: “Please let me arrive safely.” Short. Functional. Job done.

What I do have, however, is a banging playlist. An eclectic mix of Christian and secular, pop, jazz, indie, soul… the kind of playlist that only makes sense to me. And so, as I’m driving down the same stretch of road at a steady 63mph (apparently the ideal balance of speed and stopping distance, or so I’ve been told), I sing along. Loudly. Enthusiastically. Making up harmonies.

And somewhere along the M-whatever-it-was, it hit me. While I was driving and singing… I was also worshipping.

God was with me in the car. He hadn’t stayed behind because I forgot to pray properly. He wasn’t waiting patiently at my destination. He was there. In the middle of it all.

Now, travelling at 63mph, it’s generally unwise to close your eyes or light a candle. A big metal box surrounded by other big metal boxes requires a certain level of attention. And somehow… that’s okay. God didn’t require 100% focus from me.

In fact, He didn’t seem to require any carefully constructed moment at all. He just met me in the music. And not only in the obvious places.

Yes, “Gracefully Broken” still hits deep.
Yes, “Vagabonds” carries something raw and honest. But also… “Go the Distance” from Hercules? There’s something in that longing, that perseverance, that feels oddly familiar. And “The Simple Complicated Man” — “the only thing that I’m good at is loving you” — well… that line could quite easily turn God-ward. (I did warn you my taste in music is eclectic.)

I’m fairly sure no discipleship course or theological college is going to suggest “driving with a playlist” as a primary way to meet with God. It probably wouldn’t even make the top ten. And yet…

We’re taught that God is always with us. So why do we so often assume He’s only fully present when everything else is stripped away?

Maybe God is not confined to the quiet moments we create. Maybe He is just as present in the background noise we can’t escape. In the hum of the engine. In the rhythm of the road. In songs we didn’t even realise were pointing us towards Him.

Not waiting for us to arrive… but travelling with us, mile after mile.

There’s a line in the Psalms that says: “Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me.”

Even there.
Even on the motorway.
Even at 63mph.

Thanks to Samuele Errico Piccarini @samuele_piccarini for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/person-riding-on-vehicle-qAc3UNF8Hm4

Lent 2026: The answer is always Jesus

I want to start with an old joke you may have heard:

A vicar was giving the children’s message during church. For this part of the service, he would gather all the children around him and give a brief lesson before dismissing them for children’s church. On this particular Sunday, he was using squirrels for an object lesson on industry and preparation.

He started out by saying, “I’m going to describe something, and I want you to raise your hand when you know what it is.”

The children nodded eagerly.

“This thing lives in trees… and eats nuts…”
No hands went up.
“And it is grey… and has a long bushy tail…”
The children looked at each other, but still no hands raised.
“And it jumps from branch to branch and chatters and flips its tail when it’s excited…”
Finally, one little boy tentatively raised his hand. The vicar breathed a sigh of relief and called on him.
“Well…,” said the boy, “I know the answer must be Jesus… but it sure sounds like a squirrel!”

Yesterday, we were asked what sets Christian spiritualities apart from other spiritualities. We’d spent the term exploring different traditions and approaches, so it was a chance to gather everything together.

Except… the first thing that came to mind was that joke. The answer is always Jesus.

It felt almost too obvious. Too simple. A bit flippant. I did offer some more considered responses in the discussion, but that first instinct kept returning. Because, actually, it’s not wrong.

At the heart of any Christian spirituality is not just a set of practices or ideas, but a person. The aim isn’t simply self-improvement, or inner peace, or even wisdom in itself. It’s to draw near to God and, in doing so, to become more like Christ.

In other words… it really does come back to Jesus.

That thought followed me into another conversation. We were looking Luke 22, at Jesus before the council, and what struck me was what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t argue his way out. He doesn’t grasp at power or try to prove himself. There’s no scrambling for status, no performance to secure his position. He stands, calm and self-assured, secure in who he is.

And that led us to think about identity. About all the places we tend to root it. Jobs. Relationships. Possessions. Status. Appearance. Success. Approval.

None of those things are inherently bad. But all of them are fragile. They can shift, or fade, or be taken away entirely. If that’s where our identity sits, it doesn’t take much for it to start unravelling.

But if our identity is grounded somewhere else… If it’s rooted in our relationship with Jesus, in being known and loved by him, in being part of the family of God… That’s not something that can be taken away.

“It sounds like a squirrel… but I know the answer must be Jesus.”

Maybe that’s not such a bad answer after all. Because beneath all my learning, all my exploring, all my attempts to understand and explain… I keep circling back to him.

Not as the easy answer, but as the true one. The one who shows us who God is. The one who shows us who we are.

And in a world where so much of our identity can shift or slip through our fingers, that is something we can hold onto.

Or perhaps more truthfully… something that holds onto us.

Thanks to Zuzanna J @zuzannaj for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/gray-and-brown-squirrel-on-wood-83JpAxhWRVw

Lent 2026: Still held

Today I don’t feel particularly full of faith, wisdom, or inspiration. Just slightly tired and mildly overwhelmed.
I’ve got two assignments due tomorrow, one written and one very much… not. I’m heading to my parents on Saturday for the Easter break, and there’s plenty to organise. But right now, there’s no real brain space to plan any of it. I’m not dramatically empty. Not crisis empty. Just… low.

And on days like this, I think I quietly assume I have less to offer God. Less focus, less eloquence, less… something. As if my capacity determines His willingness to meet with me.

But this morning, at prayer in college, I realised something. I didn’t have much to bring. My mind wandered, my energy was low, and my prayers felt a bit… thin. But I was held by the prayers of the community around me. When I didn’t have the words, they did. When my focus slipped, their voices carried on.

And I found myself realising that’s what grace looks like sometimes. Not me striving harder. Not me pulling something impressive together. But being carried when I’ve got very little left.

Because Scripture doesn’t say, “Come to me when you are well-rested, articulate, and spiritually switched on.”
It says, “Come to me, all you who are weary…” (Matthew 11:28)

Weary doesn’t sound like someone bringing their best. It sounds like someone bringing what’s left. Maybe God isn’t waiting for the polished version of me that has time, energy, and the perfect words. Maybe He’s just as present in the half-formed prayers, the distracted thoughts, the quiet sighs in between tasks.

Grace doesn’t just meet us in our strength, it makes itself most at home in our weakness.

So today, this is what I’m bringing: a tired mind, a full (but slightly chaotic) schedule, and a scattered heart. Not much, really. And yet somehow, still enough.

Not because I’ve managed to hold it all together. But because God holds me. The God who is patient when my mind wanders, compassionate when I feel stretched thin, understanding when I have nothing particularly impressive to offer.

The God who doesn’t need me at my best to love me fully. Even today. Even like this.

I am still held.

Lent 2026: What you don’t see

There’s been a bit of a theme in conversations over the last week, but it took last night’s post for me to join the dots.

In some ways, writing yesterday felt like a bit of a bust. I didn’t have inspiration. And yet, there’s an unspoken expectation that I’ll always have something to write. All you see are the posts I put out.

Not the mild panic at 10pm when I realise I haven’t factored in time to write. Not the search for inspiration when a day has been… perfectly, unremarkably ordinary.

And I think that’s true of more than just blogging. At the weekend, we were talking about how easily our identity can get wrapped up in the image we present to the world. Social media doesn’t help.

You see the picture of the mum with no hair out of place, her toddler calmly eating dinner. Meanwhile, another mum hasn’t had a chance to shower because her toddler screamed half the night and has just launched their food across the room. What the picture doesn’t show is the meltdown in the supermarket three hours earlier.

Or the student getting top marks, life and soul of the party. Compared to them, the one just scraping by feels completely out of place. What they don’t see is that behind closed doors, that high achiever is exhausted, lonely, and quietly overwhelmed.

And then there’s the trainee vicar, standing up to lead a service, looking calm and confident… while underneath wondering if she’s actually as capable as everyone else.

That one might be true…

The truth is, we end up comparing our worst days to someone else’s highlight reel. And it’s not just “out there” on social media. Sometimes, it creeps into church life too.

There can be this sense that some Christians have it all together. They know their Bible inside out. They pray beautifully, confidently. They always seem to have the right answer at the right time.

“Super Christians.”

Except… there’s no such thing.

I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t know the Bible as well as it might sometimes seem. If I know the gist of a verse, I’ll often Google it. My Bible has one of those helpful lists at the back (grief, waiting, celebration…) and I absolutely use it.

I’m not saying that to lower the bar. I’m saying it because it’s real. We all have gaps. We all have doubts. We all have moments where we feel like we’re just about holding it together with a smile and a bit of well-timed confidence.
And the Bible is full of people exactly like that.

Abraham lied.
Joseph showed off.
Elijah ran away and wanted to give up.
Zechariah doubted an angel.
James and John argued about who was greatest.
And Peter… well, Peter denied even knowing Jesus when it mattered most.

These aren’t the stories of perfect people. They’re the stories of real people. Messy people. People with fears and flaws and off-days and moments they probably wished they could edit out.

And yet, they’re the very people God chose to work through. Maybe the problem isn’t that we’re not measuring up. Maybe it’s that we’re comparing ourselves to something that was never real in the first place. A carefully presented image. A filtered version of someone’s life. A “together” that doesn’t exist outside of appearances.

God doesn’t call “Super Christians.” He calls people. People who sometimes feel like they’re winging it. People who don’t always have the right words. People who occasionally Google Bible verses.

People like you. People like me.

So if you’ve ever felt like everyone else has it all figured out except you… You’re not alone.

You’re just seeing your own reality, while everyone else is showing you their highlight reel.

But God sees the real, unfiltered you, and He thinks you’re wonderful.

Lent 2026: I nearly didn’t write today

When I started the Lent series this year, I told myself it was OK not to manage every day. It’s hard to juggle essays and sermons and reading. Adding daily blog posts into the mix… well, I didn’t think I’d manage it.

But here we are. Day 28. With posts ranging from Panda Theory to Choral Evensong.

And tonight, tired from studying Revelation and completely lacking inspiration, I nearly let myself off the hook.

But that kind of defeats the point.
Lent is a time to draw closer to God. Some people do that by giving something up, some by taking something up. I chose the latter. Partly because I think if I gave up tea or chocolate I might stop functioning, but also because this practice has changed the way I go through the day.

I find myself noticing more. Not everything I notice makes it into this blog, it’s not always appropriate. But I do notice God more. Not just in the structured moments at the beginning and end of the day, but in the middle of it all. In conversations, in music, in small, ordinary moments that might otherwise pass by unnoticed.

And so tonight, I realised that maybe this isn’t really about writing at all. Maybe it’s about showing up, when I feel inspired, and when I don’t. Showing up when I have something profound to say, and when all I have is a slightly tired “I nearly didn’t write today.”

Because faith, more often than not, is less like a dramatic revelation and more like a quiet rhythm. A daily returning. A choosing again, and again, and again, to turn our attention towards God.

But (and this is important) not out of duty.

Not because I have to write. Not because missing a day would somehow make me a “worse” Christian. That was never the point. This isn’t about earning anything. It’s not a box to tick or a streak to maintain.

It’s grace.

I write because it helps me notice. I write because it helps me reflect. I write because, somehow, in the process, I find myself a little more aware of God than I was before. And if one day I don’t write? That’s OK. God won’t be any further away. His grace won’t run out. Nothing will have been lost.

But tonight, I chose to write. Not out of pressure, but out of desire. Not out of obligation, but out of love.

There’s a verse in Galatians that says, “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9)

Tonight, this feels like one of those small moments of “not giving up.” Not because I had to. But because I wanted to keep noticing.

Maybe God isn’t asking for brilliance every day. Maybe He’s not even asking for consistency in the way we think He is. Maybe He’s simply inviting us to keep coming back.

And tonight, just quietly, that’s exactly what I did.

If you’re feeling tired, or uninspired, or like you’ve got nothing much to offer… maybe the invitation is the same for you.

Not to be impressive. Not to be profound.

Just to come back.

Thanks to Emily Whitten @ekwhitten for making this photo available on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/a-mug-open-notebook-and-pen-on-a-wooden-table-AJfJQH4GR_E