WHAT I TURNED TO WHEN GOD FELT ABSENT

The slow drift, the breaking point, and the habits that helped rebuild my life

By Bruce A.

For most of my adult life, I would have told you I had a steady, grounded faith. I taught in a seminary, meditated on Scripture, prayed daily, and generally felt close to God. But in my mid-40s, a prolonged crisis disrupted nearly every part of my life. It did not resolve quickly. It intensified. And over time, something began to fracture—not only around me, but within me.

During the early stages of the crisis, I wrestled with God in prayer daily, asking Him to intervene. But the more I prayed, the worse things got. He didn’t seem near in any tangible way. The promises I had trusted for years began to feel distant, almost theoretical. I found myself wondering whether God’s help was real in the present moment or only meaningful in some future sense that did nothing to steady me now.

During that season, my body rarely settled. My mind raced at night. My heart rate stayed elevated. Sleep became difficult, then nearly impossible. I drank in the evenings— not to escape, at least not at first, but simply to bring my system down enough to rest. It felt like a practical solution to a physical problem. Over time, it became something more than that.

I kept praying. Some of those prayers were desperate. Some were angry. Most were repetitive. I asked God to intervene in circumstances I could not control that were hurting people I loved. I asked Him to calm what was happening inside me. Neither seemed to happen. And slowly, without ever making a formal decision, I began to rely on something else to do for me what I had once asked God to do.

Nearly two years into that pattern, I underwent intensive PTSD therapy that alleviated the physical symptoms that tortured me. Yet, I found myself still turning to alcohol. One evening, I was in Washington, D.C., trying to take steps toward rebuilding my professional life. Each evening, I had a couple of drinks. Nothing excessive. Nothing that would have raised concern from anyone watching.

On the final night, I sat alone with a glass in my hand and noticed something I could not ignore: it wasn’t working. It didn’t make me feel better. It didn’t dull the weight of what I was carrying. My life was still in pieces, and I had no clear path forward.

In that moment, I saw it plainly. Alcohol could not carry what I was asking it to carry. It was a

counterfeit—something I had turned to in the absence of what I thought I should be receiving from God.

That night, the tide turned. I offered a heartfelt and desperate prayer to the Lord, made the decision to quit alcohol, and headed back to Raleigh with the desire to rebuild my life without a false god at the helm.

Quitting alcohol turned out to be straightforward. I leaned on the guidance of a community of men who had faced their own collapse and had begun again. I met with them regularly, enjoyed the freedom of being with a group of men around whom I didn’t feel like a leper.

Regaining intimacy with God and consistency in my walk with Christ, however, proved more difficult. I still felt on-and-off resentment toward God for not intervening during the aforementioned crisis, and some cynicism about the practical import of His Fatherly love.

Yet, as my church and friends walked alongside me, I began to reinstall basic habits I had practiced for years but had neglected in the chaos: Scripture and prayer in the morning, even though often I didn’t feel like it. Worshiping with God’s people on Sundays and reminding myself of the Gospel. Small, simple acts of obedience that required no emotion to sustain them. There was nothing dramatic about it. No sudden return of spiritual intensity. Just consistency.

That consistency has mattered more than anything else.

God’s work of rebuilding me spiritually has been slow and uneven. There have been days when my thinking drifts, when old patterns of fear or resentment resurface. But God’s grace, through Scripture and church and spiritual habits, is producing in me a stronger faith and more consistent walk.

Today, I trust God again. But not in the same way I once did. What I had before was, in some ways, too dependent on life unfolding as expected. What I have now is steadier. Less fragile. More aware of how little control I actually have.

By God’s grace, I know myself better now, especially my weaknesses. I know how easily I can turn to something immediate and tangible when life becomes difficult. I also know that God’s work is often quieter than I want it to be, and slower than I would choose.

If you are in a season where you cannot feel God’s presence, I cannot tell you that the feeling will return quickly. But I offer this suggestion, based on hard-earned experience: Stay where you can be found. Be honest with God about your feelings, no matter what they are. Open the Scriptures, even if it feels mechanical. Pray, even if the words feel thin. Take the next small step of obedience in front of you.

Over time, those small acts begin to reorient your life. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But steadily. And in that steady work, you will find that God has not been absent at all.