A few years ago, I went alone to London, England for the summer. It wasn’t the first time I’d traveled solo, but it was the first time I’d spent the majority of the time with myself. London was alive with people, but most days I was alone.

My aloneness was not, in fact, loneliness. One doesn’t always equal the other. (Just like how sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still find yourself a little lonely.) Of course, I sometimes felt lonely, but I was always sure Jesus was close. I remember walking through Hyde Park, an ice cream cone in hand, chattering away in my heart to Jesus, telling Him exactly what I was thinking and feeling and dreaming. I genuinely believe He replied. He was my Friend and my Companion. I talked to Him constantly. He was my solitude.

I’ve lived alone for six years. There were long seasons where sometimes my aloneness felt palpable, almost thick. I knew each night when I woke up it would still be just me in the morning, in my one-bedroom apartment, day after day.

Maybe you can’t relate to that. Maybe you’ve wanted to escape the hordes of humans in your home. But no matter if you feel deeply alone, or if you’d pay a lot of money to be alone right now, I believe what both of us need is solitude.

One of my favourite writers, Henri Nouwen, was possibly the king of solitude, and aside from Jesus, most of what I’ve learned is from him. Nouwen was convinced that without solitude it was virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.

Except, when I actually carve out the time to meet with Jesus in solitude, I find myself suddenly distracted by 600 different things. Nouwen called this our “inner chaos”. When I sit down to meet with Jesus in silence, I instantly remember all the things I need to do, the projects I need to finish, the texts I need to send, the dishes I need to put away, the fears I have about now and the future…

My inner chaos comes out, and it comes out loudly. Getting alone — really, deeply, truly alone — with God can feel far too vulnerable and scary. Solitude asks me to bear my heart, to admit my sin, and to trust my fears and dreams to God. And then solitude asks me to do it again and again.

Nouwen said, “Solitude is not a spontaneous response to an occupied and preoccupied life. There are too many reasons not to be alone. Therefore we must begin by carefully planning some solitude.”

I wonder what planning for solitude might look like for you. It’s not simply planning to be alone, but planning to slow down long enough to become aware of God’s presence in and around you.

When I practice solitude, I’ll close my eyes and sit with my legs curled under me, slowing my breath.

I’ll say a simple prayer: Abba, I belong to You, or Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, or I inhale The Lord is my Shepherd and exhale I have all that I need, or whatever else the Spirit brings to mind.

Or I won’t say anything at all, and instead picture Jesus in my mind’s eye: how He smiles at me (because He’s delighted to see me today), or I’ll see Jesus laughing (because I’m convinced He has one of the best laughs), or I’ll just picture His eyes. Sometimes His eyes cry along with mine.

There are days when I open my eyes again, and only thirty seconds or a minute has passed. I can’t help but wonder: how can I so easily devote four or five hours to Netflix and only bear 30 seconds with You? But I know Jesus gives me a lot more grace than I give myself, and I know disciplines come with practice, and practice comes with time.

And I know, the more time I give to Jesus, the more I’ll learn to hear His voice. More than anything, I want to learn His voice.

Sometimes solitude feels like I’m wasting my time. But sometimes in solitude, the presence of God is so near to me that I can’t help but cry. And that’s why we all need solitude — because whether you’ve been alone often or not at all, we need to hear the voice of Jesus. To sit in His presence. To be keenly aware that God is with us and that the love He has for each of us is like a waterfall — how it pours out over and over, never ending.

Jesus said, “When you pray, go into a private room, close the door, and pray unseen to your Father who is unseen” (Matthew 6:6 NIV).

So this day, this month, this year… pray unseen, friend. In quiet. In solitude. With words or maybe without. And when you do, you will be deeply seen.

I promise you.

 

Listen to Aliza’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast anywhere!

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