Beyond What God Can Say

There are moments in life, fleeting but profound, where words simply fail. We are taught to speak, to explain, to express. Yet, in the quiet, there are truths that go beyond language, beyond anything God can say.

I have found myself in those spaces, where even the heavens themselves seem to hold their breath. These are the moments when words from above can no longer capture the depth of what lies within us—the unspeakable, the impossible-to-explain. It’s as if God’s voice, rich with wisdom, has reached its limit, and all that’s left is silence. And in that silence, I feel more understood than I ever could through words.

I have heard it said that God knows all. But I don’t think anyone can truly know the depth of a person’s heart, not fully. There are some things that go beyond even divine understanding, places that are too intimate, too raw, for anyone, even God, to fully grasp. It’s not about being disconnected from God; it’s about the complexity of being human, and how that complexity sometimes doesn’t fit into even the grandest spiritual narratives.

You see, there are parts of us that remain untouched by prayer, by faith, by scripture. These are the parts that only we know, that only we can touch. God, in His infinite wisdom, might understand them in ways we cannot comprehend. But understanding doesn’t always equate to speaking. Some things, even divine knowledge, are too vast, too intricate for words. I’ve found that in the stillness of those moments, when I am at my lowest or my most confused, it’s not God’s voice that I crave. It’s a silence that speaks louder than words ever could.

And there’s beauty in that silence, in the quiet spaces where no words need to be said. Have you ever felt that? That yearning for something deeper than what any spoken prayer could bring? It’s as though there’s a gap, an invisible bridge between what we understand about the divine and what we experience in our lives. I used to feel the pressure of needing to understand it all, to have everything neatly explained and wrapped up in a tidy bow. But now I’ve come to realize that sometimes, understanding is not the answer. The answer lies beyond words, in the unspoken.

There are moments in my life where I have wanted to ask God, “Why?” but as I wait, I realize that the question is too small. Sometimes, the things we experience, the pain we feel, are so big, so incomprehensible, that even asking God why feels like a limitation. What happens when the questions we have are too profound for words? When the pain we carry is too heavy to articulate? What happens when the deepest yearnings of our hearts are not found in the prayers we offer, but in the silence between those prayers?

It’s easy to get caught up in the idea that our struggles must be fixed, our pain must be healed. But in my experience, the most healing often comes in those moments of silence, when God is beyond what can be said, and what we are left with is just a quiet understanding. It is then that I feel closest to the divine, not in the answers or the prayers, but in the shared space of silence, where no words are necessary.

I think that’s what makes us human: our ability to feel things beyond what can be understood. We love in ways that don’t always make sense. We hurt in ways that words can’t describe. We long for things that can never be fully explained. In those moments, I’ve realized that even God cannot answer the things we feel, because they are beyond what is meant to be explained. They are meant to be lived. And sometimes, that’s all that matters.

There’s a verse in the Bible that says, “For now we see through a glass, darkly.” It’s a reminder that our understanding is limited, that even in our faith, there is a mystery we can never fully grasp. It’s not about having all the answers, but about embracing the uncertainty, the mystery of life. The mystery that God has set before us. When I think of this, I think of all the things we are never meant to understand—things so deeply tied to our existence that no amount of speaking can bring clarity. The darkness is not something to fear, but something to sit with, to feel. And in that feeling, something deeper stirs within us.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have the wisdom to explain why things happen the way they do. But I have faith that there is something greater than me, something greater than my understanding, that knows what is beyond. And maybe, just maybe, that is enough. Because sometimes, not knowing is the greatest peace we can find. In those moments when we are lost and confused, when the world is too much to bear, we find solace in the unspoken. And in that silence, we feel God, not through the words He might say, but through the comfort of knowing He is there.

Perhaps God doesn’t need to speak to us in words. Perhaps the truest way He connects with us is through the unspoken—the things He allows us to feel, the spaces He allows us to occupy, and the ways in which He meets us in our most vulnerable moments. Maybe His silence is the loudest prayer, the most intimate form of communication.

I’ve learned to embrace the moments when God is beyond what He can say. Because in those moments, I am forced to look inward, to find peace not in the answers, but in the questions themselves. It’s in the gaps that I find the most profound understanding of myself. It’s in the silence that I discover what lies beyond the noise, beyond the words, and beyond the limits of human comprehension.

So when you feel alone, when you feel abandoned by the divine, remember this: Sometimes, God speaks not through words, but through silence. And it is in that silence that the deepest truths are revealed—not in what is said, but in what is felt. That is where I have found peace.

That is where I have found God.

I’ve cried my heart out in the silence. There are moments in life where the pain becomes so much, so overwhelming, that words feel insufficient. I have reached points where even my own thoughts became tangled, unable to untangle the hurt I carried within me. In these moments, I’ve let the tears fall, not as a sign of weakness, but as a sign of being human. A sign of living in a world that sometimes doesn’t make sense, a world where love is not always given freely, and pain is often inexplicable.

And in those tears, I found a certain solace, a certain peace, even in the chaos of it all. It was as if the silence, the act of crying, created a bridge between me and something greater, something beyond my understanding. Sometimes I wonder if God, in His infinite wisdom, allows us to cry not to fix the problem, but to remind us that we are seen in those moments. That we don’t need the perfect words to explain our pain. We just need the release, the comfort, and the acknowledgment that we are hurting.

In the tears I’ve shed, I have found the most honest version of myself. There are no pretenses, no expectations. It is just raw, unfiltered emotion. I’ve cried for things I could never say out loud. I’ve cried for things that only God could understand, even if they were beyond the reach of language. And in those moments, I’ve realized that God doesn’t need me to be perfect. He doesn’t need me to have all the answers or to be strong all the time. He just needs me to be real—to let myself feel, to let myself break, to let myself be seen in my vulnerability.

There’s something incredibly freeing about acknowledging that you don’t have all the answers. Something profound in recognizing that even the divine cannot offer a solution to every wound, every scar, every tear that falls. In those moments, when I’ve cried my heart out, I’ve come to understand that God doesn’t fix all of my problems. Sometimes, He just meets me in the middle of them, in the raw, unspoken moments where my soul cries out for understanding, for connection, for healing.

I’ve cried for love I thought I would never have. I’ve cried for dreams that felt too distant to reach. I’ve cried for the people I’ve lost, the moments that slipped away, the things I should have said but couldn’t. I’ve cried for the version of myself that I thought I should be, for the version of myself that I thought others expected me to be. And every tear has been a form of release, a way to let go of the things that weigh me down.

But even more than that, I’ve cried because, in those tears, I realized that I am loved not for my perfection, but for my imperfections. God does not wait for me to be whole before He embraces me. He meets me in my brokenness, in my mess, in my silences. And it is in those silences, in the moments when I feel as though my heart cannot bear another beat, that I have felt His presence the most.

In the silence between words, in the silence between prayers, I’ve felt His touch. It is not the loud, booming voice that shakes the heavens, but the quiet, comforting presence that reminds me that I am never alone. That even when I cry, even when I feel lost and disconnected, I am still held.

It is in those moments that I realize the beauty of being human—the fragility, the vulnerability, the ability to feel so deeply that it almost hurts. But it is also in those moments that I realize that the things beyond what can be said are what shape us the most. They are the experiences that mold our souls, the pain that refines us, and the love that sustains us.

I have cried my heart out, and I have found that in those tears, there is a purity, a cleansing, a release of all that is weighing me down. And in that release, there is room for something greater to fill the spaces—the love, the understanding, the peace that transcends everything else.

In those moments when I feel as though I have cried until there are no more tears to shed, I have learned to listen to the silence. To listen to what is beyond the words, to listen to what is beyond the tears. Because it is in those silent spaces that I have found a love so deep, so pure, that no words can capture it. No prayer can fully explain it. It simply is. And sometimes, that is all we need.

And so, I sit in the silence, in the aftermath of tears, and I wait. I wait for the peace that comes not from answers, but from the quiet assurance that everything will be okay, even when the pain seems unbearable. I wait for the understanding that comes not from words, but from the divine presence that surrounds me, even in the most silent of moments.

It is in these moments that I feel the truest connection to the divine—when I am beyond words, beyond explanations, beyond even my own understanding. It is then that I know I am loved, not because I have the answers, not because I have it all together, but because I am simply me. And in my brokenness, in my vulnerability, in my rawness, I am seen.

I have cried my heart out, and I will cry again. But with every tear, I am reminded that there is a love that cannot be measured by words, a presence that cannot be contained by speech. It is in the silence, in the moments beyond what can be said, that I have found the deepest connection to the divine. And in that connection, I have found peace.

Neta.