There’s a kind of peace that only comes in the quiet. Not the silence of an empty room, but that deep inner stillness when the world slows down and the noise finally fades. For me, that space often begins when I light a cigar. The first draw isn’t about smoke—it’s about slowing down. About exhaling the weight of the day and inhaling something sacred.
I’ve learned that God often speaks in whispers, and you can’t hear whispers if you’re running too fast or talking too loud. Life moves at a relentless pace, and if we’re not careful, we confuse motion with meaning. But God’s Word says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” That’s not a suggestion—it’s an invitation.
Stillness is a discipline, and like any good discipline, it takes practice. It’s not just turning off your phone or sitting in silence; it’s quieting your thoughts long enough to hear something deeper. It’s the kind of solitude that doesn’t feel lonely because you’re not truly alone—you’re in the presence of the One who knows you best.
There are times when I light up a cigar just to think. Other times, I do it to stop thinking. I’ve found both to be holy moments in their own way. Sometimes the smoke becomes like incense—my way of slowing down enough to let God speak. And the beauty of it is that He always does. Not always in words, but in peace, in clarity, in a sudden reminder that I’m not carrying life alone.
Isaiah wrote, “No eye has seen any God besides You, who acts for the one who waits for Him.” That waiting part is key. We hate waiting. We live in a world built around instant everything—fast answers, fast connections, fast fixes. But the spiritual life doesn’t work like that. God doesn’t rush, and if we’re going to walk with Him, we have to learn His rhythm. Stillness teaches us that.
When I practice stillness, I’m reminded that waiting isn’t wasted time—it’s time well invested. It’s in those quiet moments that the fog starts to lift, that frustration gives way to understanding, and that my spirit feels restored. Sometimes I come out of it with new clarity, other times with no answers at all—just peace. And that’s enough.
A cigar isn’t the center of the experience—it’s the companion. It helps slow me down, gives me something tangible to focus on while the rest of me unwinds. The ritual of cutting, toasting, and drawing reminds me to approach God the same way—with intention, with respect, and with time.
So if you ever find yourself overwhelmed, restless, or just needing a reset, find your stillness. Step outside, light one up, and let the world keep spinning without you for a while. Be still long enough to let your thoughts quiet down and your spirit wake up.
Because in that sacred quiet—where smoke rises and noise fades—you might just find that God was there all along, waiting for you to slow down and listen.
Reflection:
Stillness isn’t escape—it’s encounter. Every quiet moment is a chance to hear the voice that never shouts but always speaks.