The first time I realized heaven could be silent, I was on my knees.
Not in a church.
Not under candlelight.
But on the cold floor of my living room, my forehead pressed against tile that still smelled of bleach and old prayers.
I had always believed posture mattered.
That if you knelt low enough, if your voice trembled just right, heaven would lean closer.
That night, I did everything right.
My hands were clasped so tightly my fingers hurt. My lips moved even when my voice failed me. I asked carefully—respectfully. I didn't demand. I didn't accuse. I didn't cry at first.
I prayed like a man who still believed answers came to those who waited.
"Please," I whispered. "Just this once."
The room answered me with silence.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second a reminder that time was still moving—even if my life had stopped. Somewhere outside, a car passed. Somewhere far away, someone laughed.
Heaven didn't even breathe.
I stayed there for a long time. Long enough for hope to become uncomfortable. Long enough for belief to feel stupid. Long enough for doubt to sit beside me like an uninvited guest.
Still nothing.
I told myself God was testing me. That silence was part of the process. That faith was not a transaction.
That's what they teach you, after all.
But no one teaches you what to do when silence starts to feel personal.
Earlier that day, my phone had slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Not because I was careless—but because the voice on the other end had said something my mind refused to accept.
It had said her name.
And then it had said the word gone.
I didn't scream when I heard it. I didn't collapse. I thanked the caller politely and ended the call like a man receiving directions.
Shock is merciful like that. It keeps you functional while it hollows you out.
Now, kneeling alone, the shock was wearing off.
I prayed again.
This time louder.
This time messier.
I reminded heaven of all the things I had done right. The things I had avoided. The sins I had swallowed. The anger I had buried. The compromises I had refused to make even when life begged me to.
I reminded God of my obedience.
Silence.
Something cracked then—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a thin fracture running through the part of me that had always trusted unseen hands.
I waited for guilt to follow my doubt.
It didn't.
Instead, a different thought crept in—quiet, dangerous, and impossible to unhear.
What if no one is coming?
I stood up slowly, my knees stiff, my palms cold. The room looked the same as it always had. The framed verses on the wall stared back at me, their promises suddenly heavy with irony.
"Ask and it shall be given."
I laughed.
The sound startled me. It wasn't hysterical. It wasn't broken. It was calm. Controlled. Almost curious.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city lights. Thousands of lives unfolding at once. People making choices. People doing terrible things and getting away with them. People doing good and being buried for it.
Heaven watched it all, apparently unmoved.
That was when I understood something I had never been taught.
Faith is easy when it works.
Belief is convenient when it protects you.
But silence strips everything bare.
I didn't stop praying that night. Not yet.
I just stopped expecting an answer.
And somewhere deep inside me, in a place prayer had never reached, something else began to form—slow, deliberate, and frighteningly clear.
If heaven would not speak…
I would.