Solitude as a Place of Encounter
As a child, I remember running into the kitchen just to be near my mom. She’d be standing at the stove, quietly preparing supper or stirring a pot. I wouldn’t do anything special or particularly helpful; I’d simply sit there, watching. Amid the clinking utensils, the hum of the fridge, and the bubbling of pots, something began to grow—quietly over time.
Years later, people would ask, “How did you and your mom become so close?” At first, I’d shrug and say, “I don’t really know—she was always there I guess .” But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the small and seemingly insignificant decision to make myself available—choosing to be in the kitchen with her when I could’ve been doing anything else started that relationship. Our closeness didn’t come from grand gestures or deep conversations. It grew slowly, shaped by ordinary moments where I simply showed up. Those moments were intentional, and even if I didn’t know it at the time they required something of me. And as a five-year-old boy, that meant laying down what any five year old would rather be doing—playing, running, watching TV etc.—all for the sake of just being near his mom.
Looking back, I can see now: that’s where our closeness began. In those quiet, consistent rhythms.
This story reminds me very much of a young boy named David. When we first meet him in the biblical narrative, he’s not in a palace or among royalty—where you’d expect a future king to be. He’s not in a temple either—the central place of worship in ancient Israel. He’s not even standing in line with his brothers, hoping to be chosen as Israel’s next king. He’s out in the field, tending sheep—doing a job no one admired or paid much attention to.
It was an ordinary day. But in that quiet, unremarkable setting, something unexpected was about to unfold.
Up until that point, the Israelite people had been fixed on outward appearances. They wanted a king like the other nations had—someone who looked the part, carried stature, and spoke with authority. They got what they asked for in Saul: a man head and shoulders above the rest, striking in appearance, and, at least on the outside, everything they had hoped for. But as Saul’s reign unraveled, so did the illusion—that external strength and appearance were enough to be the right kind of human, the kind that people desired. What God was looking for—and what Israel desperately needed—wasn’t found in status or looks. It was found in solitude.
David, the youngest of Jesse’s eight sons, wasn’t even considered worthy when Samuel—Israel’s spiritual leader, the one who listened for God’s voice and guided the people—came to anoint Saul’s replacement. Instead, David was out in the fields tending sheep—a task often left to the youngest or a hired hand because it was humble, monotonous, and socially low-status. Shepherding in ancient Israel required long days alone in dry, rugged hills, caring for stubborn livestock that rarely heeded guidance. Few envied the job—it was demanding, unglamorous, and mostly unseen.
But it was precisely in those silent, overlooked spaces that God formed a man after His own heart. In solitude among sheep and dust, David learned not just to care for animals—but to walk with God. The instincts he sharpened—protecting his flock from lions and bears, guiding them to fresh pasture, using the sling, and even soothing with music—became the character and skill that would one day equip him to shepherd a nation. His faith, courage, and worship were all shaped not in public spaces, but in the hidden rhythms of the pasture.
We know David as a psalmist—a man after God’s own heart—whose prayers have echoed across generations. But those words were born in solitude, not the spotlight. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he would later write—not as metaphor, but from lived experience.
Yet the pasture was only the beginning. David was anointed king as a teenager, but it would take years of wilderness wandering, betrayal, and exile before he ever wore a crown. The solitude that first formed him in youth returned to refine him in adulthood. Again and again, David found himself alone in caves, crying out for justice, clinging to promises that hadn’t yet come to pass. And yet—he stayed with God. His story reveals something we all quietly long for: not just to be chosen, but to be kept—to be formed over time by a God who doesn’t give up on us.
David’s life invites us into a deeper kind of trust: the kind that’s shaped not by applause or achievement, but by the quiet faithfulness of being known and held through every season.
Solitude works the same way for you and I. In today’s culture, it’s tempting to think of solitude as simply being alone—isolated from everything and everyone. But what the Bible teaches us is that solitude is an intentional rhythm: a space where our desires are formed and a quiet trust is developed in a God who is unseen—yet who has made, and continues to make, Himself seen through people like you and I.
In solitude, we learn to see ourselves through God’s eyes–with no need to hide or pretend. In that upside-down and sometimes confusing reality, being fully seen becomes the safest place for us.
“Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.” (James 4:8)
This is the invitation that lies at the heart of the second rhythm of the Hold Space framework: Word Incarnation. In solitude, we make room for God’s Word to move from a cool idea in our heads to a living reality in our hearts—where His Spirit reminds us of what God has spoken, even from the beginning of creation.
If you know Jesus—or even just know about Him—what do you think God’s dream is for you in this moment of your life? Could it be that He wants you to see His heart more clearly than you do right now? Or maybe… He wants to be known by you more deeply—so He can walk with you in trust—and, like David, quietly form you for what’s ahead. This isn’t just your story. It’s the story He’s been writing all along.
I want you to take this journey with me, as we chase the wonder of who God is— the kind of life He’s been inviting us into from the very beginning.
Jump on!
The Life We're Invited Into
From the start of Scripture, God shows a repeated desire to be close to those He made —yes, that’s you and that’s me. He walked with Adam. He spoke to Moses from the burning bush. He journeyed patiently with the Israelites through the wilderness. Despite their repeated mistakes, He didn't abandon them. Instead, He came closer and He persevered.
In Jesus, God crossed every imaginable boundary—death, shame, separation—to meet us exactly where we are. He didn’t just come to solve problems; He came to be with us. And before He left, Jesus made a promise:
“I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, to be with you forever… You know him, for he dwells with you and will be in you.” (John 14:16–17)
Jesus offered more than comfort for us. He showed us the type of relationship we've been created for—intimate, abiding, shared life with the creator of the universe. Not occasional spontaneous visits, but a constant, mutual indwelling with God. This eternal life is not merely unending time; it’s life infused with God's Spirit, experienced here and now with even more glory in the future.
The Invitation
Let me ask you, yes, you quiet listener reading this blog:
Who currently shares in your everyday spaces?
Who do you intentionally invite alongside you as you put your child to sleep, take your dog for a walk, or prepare your evening meal?
Who have you invited into these ordinary yet holy moments of your life?
To you Jesus still extends His invitation:
“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)
Are you willing to hold space for Him today? To let His Spirit inhabit your daily life—not as an idea, but as a real and tangible person? Can you set aside your plans and distractions long enough to listen and truly be with Him?
God is not distant. He waits quietly in your ordinary routines—your kitchen, your commute, your evenings. He’s already there, simply waiting for your invitation.
And as you draw near, you might just discover the Friend and Saviour you've been longing for.
