The Practice of Presence

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” — Simone Weil

This past summer, I went camping in Colorado with my two youngest boys.  We had done a lot of hiking, and I was worn out, so when they proposed another hike, I told them they could go on without me, and I would rest up at the campsite. 

After they'd gone, I posted up in a hammock, facing a majestic mountain, my view framed by aspen trees, and the sound of the river below in my ears.  I had decided to leave my phone in the tent so I could just sit in quiet and take it all in. 

It took me a bit to keep my mind from racing and resisting the urge to get up and get my phone.  But the hypnotic shimmer of the aspen leaves blowing in the wind was mesmerizing, and I soon found my scattered thoughts fading.  

As time went on, I discovered that I felt a sense of peace washing over me, and the presence of something else.  I knew I wasn't alone in that moment.  

In that time of quiet, surrounded by the beauty of Creation, I felt held by God's presence.  All of the cares and worries that I had been dealing with faded away for a brief and glorious hour as I let all of my senses become alive and awake.  

When my boys returned with a raucous arrival, I couldn't help but smile.  They found their joy on the trail. I found mine in a moment of stillness, listening for the voice of God, who spoke all around me.  

We live in an age that prizes speed and stimulation. Our devices buzz, our calendars overflow, and silence feels almost threatening. Yet the Gospel keeps calling us back to stillness — to the practice of presence, where faith is formed not by frantic activity but by awareness.

When Jesus visited the home of Mary and Martha, it was Martha who did what culture still celebrates: she busied herself with service, management, and efficiency. Mary simply sat and listened. Jesus’ gentle correction of Martha wasn’t a rebuke of her work; it was an invitation to attention — to dwell in the moment where God was already speaking.

Presence is a prayer. It’s learning to be fully where you are, with the person in front of you, trusting that God is there too. It’s noticing sunlight through the window, the sound of laughter, the ache in a friend’s voice. To be present is to resist the world’s demand that we hurry past the holy.

This practice doesn’t come easily. The mind wanders, the heart races. But again and again, the Spirit draws us back to the simple act of breathing, listening, abiding. Faith deepens not by doing more, but by staying longer.

In a fractured world, presence becomes a quiet revolution — a way of saying that people matter more than productivity, that grace can be found in the ordinary, and that love begins with attention.

Prayer:
God of the present moment,
slow my pace and quiet my soul.
Teach me to listen more than I speak,
to notice before I judge,
and to find You here — in this breath, this place, this person.
Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. When do you find it hardest to be fully present — with God, with others, or with yourself?

2. How might you make space each day for silence, listening, or stillness?

3. What would change in your relationships if you treated presence as prayer?