When Amen Fells Like Lying

When Amen Feels Like Lying

A devotion for the dry places

I sat in the pew again.

Same row. Same stain on the hymnbook page. Same scratch on the floor where someone's heel dug in. A wedding ring? A nervous foot? Who knows.

The worship team sang about a fire.

Woman two rows up? Crying. Real tears. The kind that leave salt tracks.

Me?

Nothing.

Not sad. Not angry. Just... nothing.

Like a TV channel went off air at 3 AM. Snow. Static. No one home.

My fire went out three months ago. Or maybe last year.

You know how it is. Days blur when you're just going through the motions of a faith that used to breathe but now just... sits there. On the couch. In its underwear. Eating cold pizza.

Sorry. Is that too honest?

Too bad.

Prayer bounces off the ceiling now. Like a rubber ball thrown at a wall by a bored kid. Thwack. Thud. Thwack. Thud.

Scripture reads like a grocery list.

Milk. Eggs. Love your neighbor. Bread. Don't commit adultery. Dish soap.

Everyone else has tears. Raised hands. Eyes closed like they're seeing something.

I'm just sitting.

Not rebelling. Not deconstructing. Not writing a viral thread about my doubts.

Just empty.

Like a well someone forgot to refill. Like a phone on 1% with no charger in sight.

I tried to manufacture it.

You would too.

Clenched my jaw. Closed my eyes harder. Squeezed until I saw colors behind my lids.

Whispered "I love You" like a confession I wasn't sure was true.

Like saying "I'm fine" at a party when your whole chest is actually caving in. But slower. More religious.

I raised my hand once.

Halfway.

For three seconds.

Felt like a hypocrite. Put it back down. Didn't tell anyone.

Here's the weird part.

The silence didn't scold me.

Didn't point a finger. Didn't quote Scripture back at me. Didn't say "you just need more faith" or "have you checked for hidden sin?"

The silence just... sat there.

Like an old dog who doesn't need you to perform tricks. Just glad you're still in the room. Even if you're not petting him. Even if you're just staring at the wall.

That dog? Good boy.

Feelings leave. That's what feelings do.

Like birds that don't owe you tomorrow. Like a friend who says "I'll call" and doesn't. Like the wifi when the storm hits.

You can't command a feeling. Can't negotiate with it. Can't shame it into staying. Trust me. I tried.

But You said something different.

Not "I'll stay while it feels good."

Not "I'll stay while your heart is warm."

Not "I'll stay while you cry on key with a nice vibrato."

I will never leave you nor forsake you.

That's not a feeling. That's a fact.

Not a sunrise. A rock.

Not a song. A signature.

Not a hug. A contract. Written in blood. On wood. No fine print.

So I'll stay too.

Not because I feel You.

Not because worship made me cry.

Not because someone laid hands on me and electricity ran down my spine (it didn't).

Because You said.

That's it. That's the whole prayer now.

Not "Here I am to worship" with a key change and a key change and a key change.

Just: Here I am.

Cold. Honest. Still here. Holding nothing but a promise I can't feel but won't drop.

Even if my fingers are tired.

And here's the strange thing.

That's not lying.

That's the only honest thing left.

And somehow—quietly, stupidly, inexplicably—

that counted.

Still counts.

If this poem found you in your own dry place, comment one word: Still here. Not for me. For the courage to stay when it costs something.

Share this with someone who stopped saying amen and never told anyone why.