As I sat there on the bench staring out at the lake before me, it dawned on me that I had done it once again.
I had filled my schedule with activities at the weekend women's retreat—sessions, conversations, activities, anything that kept me occupied. It was my very first retreat, and truthfully, I had been looking forward to a moment to breathe. I was newly postpartum, away from my six-month-old for the first time, and emotionally stretched in ways I didn't yet have words for.
And yet, when the quiet moment finally came, I almost avoided it.
Because what I really needed wasn't another session.
I needed to sit with God.
The problem was... I didn't actually know how.
I didn't grow up with a foundation of knowing who God is, let alone an example of what a relationship with Him would even look like. Relationships in my life came with their own set of challenges, so the notion of believing I could have one with the Almighty—the Great I AM—seemed impossible.
How do you talk to Him?
That felt strangely unfamiliar as an adult trying to begin something real.
So, in a moment of raw honesty, I finally said out loud,
"Father God—"
And then I stopped mid-sentence.
It felt... awkward.
Too formal. Too rehearsed. Like I was trying to say the "right" thing instead of the real thing.
So I tried again.
"Papa..."
And once again, I stopped.
That somehow felt even more uncomfortable.
I sat there, slightly embarrassed by my own attempt to pray, even though no one else was around to hear me. After a pause, I let the honesty come out instead of the performance.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted quietly.
"I don't know how to talk to You.
I don't even know what to call You."
There was no lightning.
No loud voice.
No dramatic moment.
Just a gentle nudge in my spirit:
Luke 1:3.
I opened my Bible quickly, expecting some profound revelation that would suddenly unlock everything. Instead, I read:
"It seemed good to me also, having had perfect understanding of all things from the very first, to write unto thee in order, most excellent Theophilus."
I blinked at the page.
Confused, I whispered,
"You want me to call You... Theophilus?
That seems even weirder."
Then came another quiet prompting:
Look up what Theophilus means.
Friend of God.
Holy snot! It means friend.
In that moment, everything in me softened.
Through all my busyness, all my awkwardness, and all my uncertainty, God was not asking for perfect words, polished prayers, or religious performance. He was inviting something much simpler.
Friendship.
Tears filled my eyes as the realization settled in. Not because the moment was loud or dramatic, but because it was deeply personal. I had come to that retreat thinking I needed structure, answers, and clarity on how to "do" a relationship with God the right way.
Instead, He met me in my honesty.
Right there on a quiet bench overlooking the water, in the middle of my awkward beginning, God introduced Himself not as a distant title I had to get right, but as a Friend I could learn to know.
I thanked Him for speaking to me.
And just as gently as the conversation began, it settled into peace—as if my heart had received exactly what it needed.
That day, I didn't leave the bench with a perfected prayer life, a spiritual formula, or a polished understanding of God.
I left with something far more foundational.
Permission to begin.
Not through performance.
Not through perfection.
But through honest friendship.
And that was the true beginning of my relationship with Him.
Companion Thought:
God is not looking for polished prayers. He's inviting a real relationship.
Reflect with me in Chronicle #2