Just like a deer that craves streams of water,
my whole being craves you, God.
Reflection
Some mornings, I wake up already tired. Tired not from doing too much, but from thinking too much. The “type of tired sleep can’t fix” as my good friend Ryan would say. I’ve never been a carefree person. I’m thoughtful to the point of exhaustion, meticulous to the point where even my own habits irritate me. Today, it was my hair. I had done an oil treatment the night before, hoping it would help, but the ends still felt dry. It shouldn’t have mattered, they were tucked neatly in a bun. But I found myself fixating on them. Then it was my socks. Bright, unavoidable, fluorescent orange. Hidden under boots but somehow loud enough to distract me anyway. And, of course, the hangnail on my left middle finger, the one I examined like it held some sort of cosmic meaning.
That’s how I sat on my porch—grey sky above me, grey mood inside me. I was hoping to write for myself for the first time since the third grade. Back then, in Ms. Harris’s class, I was eight and decided I wanted to be a writer. Then life shifted. My parents divorced. My inner world shrank. My own thoughts grew sharp and unkind, so I drowned them out with noise. Any noise really: podcasts, music, voices, shows…anything to keep silence from catching up to me. Now at 23, I say I want to be a relaxed woman, someone who moves through life with ease. But even today, with two hours blocked on my calendar just for writing, my brain mainly narrated the rest of my to-do list…and the unfortunate socks.
It wasn’t until I sat long enough in the quiet that I realized what all this fussing was really about. It wasn’t the socks. It wasn’t my hair. It wasn’t the hangnail or even the gloomy sky. It was thirst. A soul-deep restlessness I had been trying to soothe with productivity, noise, and self-criticism.
Psalm 42:1 names this feeling long before I ever had the language for it: a soul panting for connection with the One who made me. A longing not for perfection, but for presence. A desire not for a quiet mind, but for a quiet place inside myself where I can remember I am held, accompanied, and understood.
Maybe the deer in the psalm isn’t frantic or ashamed of its neediness. Maybe it simply knows where water is. Maybe the point isn’t to be carefree, but to be cared for.
As I sat there, still grey, still annoyed, still thoroughly myself. But then I sensed the invitation to breathe. To unclench the parts of my body that always brace for impact. To let my soul admit, “I’m thirsty.” And to trust that God who hears me offers living water without judgment and without rushing me through my process.
by Ali Clark
For Pondering and Prayer
Today, spend five minutes in intentional silence. No music, no screens, no to-do list. Sit, breathe, and simply acknowledge your longing for peace, grounding, and presence. Let that honesty be your offering.
Prayer: Presence who knows me deeply, meet me in my restlessness. Help me pause long enough to recognize what my soul truly needs. Gently quiet the noise inside me, and guide me to the waters that refresh, restore, and steady me. Amen.
