It started with an empty plate.
Marla sat at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a full cup of coffee she hadn’t touched. The smell, usually warm and beckoning, couldn’t compete with the ache threading through her chest. She hadn’t eaten since last night—not because she was too busy or dieting—but because she needed to hear from God. Really hear. Not through a sermon, not through well-meaning texts from friends, but in the quiet. In the stillness that comes with fasting.
She glanced at the wall clock. It was already noon. Her stomach groaned, but her soul was starting to settle—like the surface of a lake after a storm.
You see, Marla wasn’t fasting for show. No one knew. Not even her husband. In a world that glorifies public moments—highlight reels, before-and-after photos, spiritual bragging rights—Marla was practicing the kind of fasting Jesus taught about in Matthew 6:16-18: “When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do... But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen.”
There’s a sacred privacy to real fasting. It’s not a badge—it’s a bridge. A way to leave behind the noise and lean into something deeper. Maybe you’ve felt that too—the urge to pull away from the chatter of life and say with every fiber of your body, “God, I’m here. And I want to be where You are.”
Biblical fasting isn’t about punishing the body. It’s about aligning our deepest hunger with our highest calling. Isaiah 58:6 paints a breathtaking picture: “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice... to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?” That kind of fasting doesn’t end with an empty stomach. It ends with justice, renewal, mercy flowing through hands that have been first lifted in surrender.
But surrender is hard, isn’t it?
Especially when you’re carrying heartbreak. Or fear. Or that creeping suspicion that maybe God’s not listening quite like He used to. That’s why the prophet Joel called out to a weary people: “Return to Me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning” (Joel 2:12). Because sometimes the gate back to God is found in the silence—and in the hunger.
Fasting, at its core, is giving up what’s good to reach for what’s greater.
Once, during a difficult season filled with health scares and family strain, I set aside one meal a day to fast and pray. It wasn’t dramatic. Just an hour without food, a walk instead of lunch, a whispered prayer for wisdom. And somewhere in that quiet sacrifice, God met me—not with booming answers, but with stillness. Peace, like a warm coat on a freezing day. Sometimes the miracle isn’t in a changed situation, but in a changed soul.
Marla stayed at the table long after the coffee cooled. Her fast went unnoticed by everyone but God. But later that day, when her daughter broke into unexpected tears after school, Marla didn't react the way she might have. She listened. Held her. Prayed with her. The fast had prepared her heart to serve, not just seek.
Friend, maybe you’re in a place where words feel thin and your soul feels faint. That might be your invitation. Not to prove your devotion, but to posture your heart. Not to manipulate God, but to make space for Him to move.
Fasting isn't about skipping meals—it's about feeding your spirit.
So if you feel distant, disoriented, or hungry for something this world can’t satisfy, maybe this is your time. Not to broadcast, but to believe. Not to strive, but to return. Quietly. Gently. Like rain soaking dry ground.
Because in the stillness, when the world is hushed and the plate is empty, something sacred begins.
And your Father—who sees what is done in secret—will meet you there.
That’s who He is. And He still is.
It started with an empty plate.
Marla sat at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a full cup of coffee she hadn’t touched. The smell, usually warm and beckoning, couldn’t compete with the ache threading through her chest. She hadn’t eaten since last night—not because she was too busy or dieting—but because she needed to hear from God. Really hear. Not through a sermon, not through well-meaning texts from friends, but in the quiet. In the stillness that comes with fasting.
She glanced at the wall clock. It was already noon. Her stomach groaned, but her soul was starting to settle—like the surface of a lake after a storm.
You see, Marla wasn’t fasting for show. No one knew. Not even her husband. In a world that glorifies public moments—highlight reels, before-and-after photos, spiritual bragging rights—Marla was practicing the kind of fasting Jesus taught about in Matthew 6:16-18: “When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do... But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen.”
There’s a sacred privacy to real fasting. It’s not a badge—it’s a bridge. A way to leave behind the noise and lean into something deeper. Maybe you’ve felt that too—the urge to pull away from the chatter of life and say with every fiber of your body, “God, I’m here. And I want to be where You are.”
Biblical fasting isn’t about punishing the body. It’s about aligning our deepest hunger with our highest calling. Isaiah 58:6 paints a breathtaking picture: “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice... to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?” That kind of fasting doesn’t end with an empty stomach. It ends with justice, renewal, mercy flowing through hands that have been first lifted in surrender.
But surrender is hard, isn’t it?
Especially when you’re carrying heartbreak. Or fear. Or that creeping suspicion that maybe God’s not listening quite like He used to. That’s why the prophet Joel called out to a weary people: “Return to Me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning” (Joel 2:12). Because sometimes the gate back to God is found in the silence—and in the hunger.
Fasting, at its core, is giving up what’s good to reach for what’s greater.
Once, during a difficult season filled with health scares and family strain, I set aside one meal a day to fast and pray. It wasn’t dramatic. Just an hour without food, a walk instead of lunch, a whispered prayer for wisdom. And somewhere in that quiet sacrifice, God met me—not with booming answers, but with stillness. Peace, like a warm coat on a freezing day. Sometimes the miracle isn’t in a changed situation, but in a changed soul.
Marla stayed at the table long after the coffee cooled. Her fast went unnoticed by everyone but God. But later that day, when her daughter broke into unexpected tears after school, Marla didn't react the way she might have. She listened. Held her. Prayed with her. The fast had prepared her heart to serve, not just seek.
Friend, maybe you’re in a place where words feel thin and your soul feels faint. That might be your invitation. Not to prove your devotion, but to posture your heart. Not to manipulate God, but to make space for Him to move.
Fasting isn't about skipping meals—it's about feeding your spirit.
So if you feel distant, disoriented, or hungry for something this world can’t satisfy, maybe this is your time. Not to broadcast, but to believe. Not to strive, but to return. Quietly. Gently. Like rain soaking dry ground.
Because in the stillness, when the world is hushed and the plate is empty, something sacred begins.
And your Father—who sees what is done in secret—will meet you there.
That’s who He is. And He still is.
