Part 1 - Still On Speaking Terms
- Hampton Law Firm ⚖️
- 10 hours ago
- 5 min read
This 3 Part series is not meant to be a neatly packaged testimony with a perfect beginning, middle, and ending. It is an honest reflection on adult faith: the kind that still believes, still aches, still remembers, but sometimes forgets how to speak. It is about the distance that can grow between a person and Jesus, not because love disappeared, but because life became heavy, complicated, disappointing, and loud.
If you haven't heard the song, I encourage you to listen to it. Some of the lyrics that touched me were:
"I used to kneel beside my bed at night when I was small, it was easy as breathing, believing wasn't hard at all, I knew that you were there, close as my next prayer. The word will break you down, break your heart and shake your faith, but now you feel so far away I don't know who's to blame, I don't talk to you as much, maybe that's part of growing up"
And
"I carry on this one way conversation, I'm listening but you don't say a word, if your answer's in the silence, I'll be patient, but its hard to know my prayers are being heard, i'm waiting on a whisper, just something to confirm, that you and me are still on speaking terms" "I mostly come around now when things aren't working out, I show up with my questions, my stumbles and my doubts, always thinking of myself and always asking you for help"
There are songs that do more than play through your speakers. They interrupt you. They find the quiet place you have been avoiding and say the thing you did not know you needed permission to admit. Ella Langley’s song “Speaking Terms” did that for me. It was not just the melody or the beauty of the song. It was the honesty of it. It captured something I think many adults feel but do not always know how to say: I still believe in Jesus, but somewhere along the way, I stopped knowing how to talk to Him the way I used to.
The song reflects on the difference between childhood faith and adult faith, and that contrast is what stayed with me. As a child, talking to Jesus can feel natural. You do not need a tragedy to pray. You do not need to have the right words. You do not worry about whether your theology is polished enough or whether your prayers sound impressive. You simply talk to Him because you believe He is there. You tell Him when you are scared. You thank Him when you are happy. You whisper to Him at night because, in the simplicity of childhood, believing does not feel complicated.
Adulthood changes that for so many of us. It is not always that we stop believing. Sometimes we just stop speaking. We get busy. We get hurt. We become responsible for everyone and everything. We survive things we never thought would happen to us. We carry disappointments we do not know how to explain. Then one day we realize we mostly come to Jesus when something has gone wrong. We come with panic, grief, fear, need, questions, and tears, but not always with ordinary conversation anymore.
That realization is painful because it forces you to confront the difference between having faith and having closeness. I have never wanted to be someone who only calls on Jesus in emergencies, but if I am honest, adulthood has made that easier than I want to admit. There have been seasons where I still believed He was real, still believed He was good, still believed He was near, but did not live like I was in daily conversation with Him. I lived more like someone who remembered His number when the house was on fire.
That is why the phrase “speaking terms” feels so human and so sacred at the same time. We usually use it when a relationship has become strained. People say they are not on speaking terms after a fight, a betrayal, a divorce, or a long silence. It does not always mean the relationship is gone. Sometimes it means the relationship still exists, but communication has become painful, awkward, distant, or uncertain. When you apply that phrase to Jesus, it becomes a question that can break your heart: Lord, are we still close enough to talk?
I think the song impacted me so deeply because I was already in a place where I wanted to feel close to Jesus again. That desire did not come from one single event, but there are moments that reveal the truth of where your heart is. Sitting alone with tears streaming down my face on Mother’s Day and on what should have been my anniversary was one of those moments. It was not the whole story, but it was a scene that told the truth. There was no partner beside me, no children in the room, no one physically there to witness the ache. And in that kind of silence, you realize how deeply a relationship with Jesus can save people.
Not save in the shallow, decorative way people sometimes talk about faith. I mean save in the real way. Save you from believing you are completely unseen. Save you from confusing loneliness with abandonment. Save you from thinking the empty room gets the final word. Save you by reminding you that even if no human being is there to hold your hand, Jesus still sees the tears no one else sees.
That kind of moment does not make faith instantly easy. It does not erase the pain. It does not make you suddenly feel spiritually strong. Sometimes it does the opposite. Sometimes it reveals how far you have drifted. It makes you realize that you have been trying to survive on your own strength, your own intelligence, your own discipline, your own ability to endure. And while those things may help you function, they cannot love you back. They cannot sit with your soul in the dark.
The ache of wanting to feel close to Jesus again is not something to be ashamed of. Maybe it is not evidence that faith is dead. Maybe it is evidence that faith is still alive enough to miss Him. You do not long for what never mattered. You do not grieve distance from someone you do not love. If you are asking whether you and Jesus are still on speaking terms, maybe the very question means the relationship is not over.
I do not think finding your way back always begins with a dramatic spiritual awakening. Sometimes it begins with one honest sentence. Jesus, I do not know how to talk to You like I used to. Sometimes it begins with admitting that you have mostly come around when life was falling apart, and you want to learn how to come around when life is ordinary, too. Sometimes it begins with sitting in the silence and choosing not to run from it.
So this series begins there: not with perfect faith, not with all the answers, and not with a polished conclusion. It begins with a question. It begins with the memory of a little girl who once spoke freely to Jesus and the reality of a grown woman trying to find that voice again. It begins with the hope that even after years of distance, silence, grief, and survival, Jesus and I may still be on speaking terms.
Judith L. Hampton
Attorney At Law
Hampton Law Firm
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