The Stillness That Speaks

By Jay Jacobson

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

I’ve worked in funeral service my entire adult life. It’s the kind of profession that doesn’t just touch your faith—it tests it.

You can’t stand at the edge of grief every day and not wrestle with the big questions: Why do we suffer? Where is God in our pain? What does it all mean?

In those questions, I’ve found answers. Not because I’m particularly wise—but because I’ve seen what happens when people live with and without faith.

I believe in God. And I believe the evidence of His presence isn’t just in scripture or theology—but in the difference I’ve seen in the lives of those who trust Him.

In funeral homes, I’ve watched families with faith walk through devastating loss—and still carry a peace that doesn’t make logical sense. It’s not that they grieve less, but their grief is grounded in something greater. They believe there’s more. More to this life. More beyond it. And that belief shapes how they carry their sorrow.

On the other hand, I’ve seen colleagues—good people—slowly unravel in the face of this work. The constant exposure to death, pain, and trauma can harden a person or hollow them out. I’ve watched some fall into alcohol or addiction, marriages falling apart under the weight of unprocessed grief. They had nowhere to set it down, no spiritual anchor to hold them steady.

And then I’ve seen others—those deeply rooted in faith—not just survive, but flourish. They don’t avoid the hard days. They show up for them. They love deeply, hurt honestly, and still find meaning in the work. Faith hasn’t made them immune to struggle—but it has given them strength to endure it.

For me, faith is not an abstract idea. It’s the still, small voice I hear when the world is loud. It’s the guidance that shows up when I feel lost. It’s the strength that finds me when I think I’ve got nothing left to give.

Science doesn’t contradict that for me—it confirms it. The more I understand how this world works, the more I believe there must be a Creator. The design, the order, the beauty—it all points to something greater than chance.

One of my favorite books is The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel. A former atheist, Strobel set out to disprove the existence of Jesus. But what he found was evidence so compelling, he couldn’t walk away from it. “I realized that belief in Christ is not some blind leap into the dark,” he wrote, “but a jump into the light.”

That’s how I see it. Belief in God doesn’t require you to shut your eyes—it asks you to open them.

So yes, I believe. Because I’ve seen the difference it makes. In families. In colleagues. In myself.

Because in the stillness—in the quiet places of my life—I’ve heard Him speak.

And that stillness continues to guide me through the noise of this world, one day at a time.