NeuroDivine

Showing up is enough

Readings: Joel 2: 23-32 | Psalm 65 | 2 Timothy 4: 6-8, 16-18 | Luke 18: 9-14 |RB Chapter 19.

There’s a particular kind of stillness that settles in when the rain finally comes—not the dramatic downpour, but the gentle kind that soaks the soil and makes the air feel like a held breath. Joel’s promise of restoration lands differently when your body knows drought. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Just the slow ache of waiting for relief, for renewal, for something to shift.

Psalm 65 sings of abundance, but it’s the line about silence that catches me: “To You silence is praise.” In a world that often demands performance—of faith, of wellness, of neurotypicality—there’s grace in knowing that quiet presence counts. That showing up, even without words, is enough.

Paul, writing from the edge of his life, doesn’t ask for pity. He names his offering: poured out, not wasted. There’s a dignity in that. A kind of liturgical honesty. The kind I’ve learned to carry into hospital corridors and vestry meetings, into the dialysis chair and the choir stall. Not because I’m strong. But because I’ve been held.

Luke’s parable turns the spotlight on posture. Not the kind corrected by a physio, but the inward lean—toward mercy, away from comparison. The tax collector doesn’t perform his repentance. He simply stands, aware of his need. That kind of awareness is familiar. It’s the same one I bring to the Divine Office, where Chapter 19 reminds me that being watched isn’t surveillance—it’s accompaniment. The eyes of the Holy aren’t measuring—they’re noticing.

And for those of us wired to notice too much, to feel the weight of every gaze and every missed cue, that’s a balm. To be seen not as a problem to solve, but as a voice to harmonize with. Even when the voice trembles. Even when the mind wanders. Even when the body resists rhythm.

So this week, I’m not striving for eloquence. I’m letting my silence be praise. I’m trusting that the rain will come. And I’m standing, like the tax collector, in the quiet confidence that mercy doesn’t need a script.

Prayer at the Choir Stall