Unmuting Love's Broadcast

Recently, during meditation, I noticed something that surprised me.

At the very end of sitting quietly, I realized that what I was yearning for wasn’t insight, answers, or clarity. I was yearning to feel—just an ounce—of the love of Spirit, of the Universe, of that sustaining Presence people talk about. I wanted to feel it as me, moving through me, holding me.

And then something tender and painful surfaced.

I noticed that a part of me was still looking for that love as something outside of myself—something to arrive, something to be given, something that would finally reassure me that I wasn’t alone or forgotten. When it didn’t appear the way I expected, a deep sadness came over me. A familiar sadness. The kind that feels like abandonment.

Have you ever felt that way?

In a relationship?

With a job?

With a friend?

Even with God?

That quiet sense of “Did you leave me?” can be deeply distressing.

What followed surprised me even more. I realized I was grieving—not a person, but an idea. I was mourning assumptions I didn’t know I was still carrying. Assumptions about God. About how love should show up. About what trust is supposed to feel like. I thought I had already let those ideas go years ago, until I felt the sadness that told me otherwise.

And then something shifted.

I began to see that nothing had actually left me. Nothing had forsaken me. Nothing had gone silent.

What had happened was much simpler—and very human.

I had muted the signal.

When we put someone on mute on the phone, it’s usually not because we don’t want to hear them. Often, it’s the opposite. We mute them so they don’t have to hear the clinking dishes, the background conversations, the noise of our lives. We intend to come back and listen more clearly.

But then something subtle happens.

Our attention turns fully toward whatever we’re doing. The task at hand. The responsibility. The urgency. And even though the person on the other end is still talking—still sharing, still present—we’re no longer really listening. Not because we forgot they were there, but because the very thing we muted them for ends up pulling our attention away.

That’s what this realization felt like.

It wasn’t that Love stopped speaking.

It wasn’t that Presence withdrew.

It wasn’t even that I forgot it was there.

It was that I muted this steady, ongoing broadcast of love and belonging, thinking I would hear it more clearly later. And then life, in all its busyness, took over my attention so completely that I couldn’t hear what was being said—even though it never stopped.

The signal was still broadcasting.

The message was still being delivered.

My attention was just elsewhere.

That’s a very different story than abandonment.

It’s not loss.

It’s not failure.

It’s distraction.

And there’s a lot of tenderness in seeing that.

For me, this wasn’t about doing something new or trying harder. It was about realizing that nothing had been missing all along. What I was yearning for hadn’t gone anywhere—it just hadn’t been getting my full attention.

Maybe that resonates with you. Maybe life has been loud. Maybe responsibility, grief, disappointment, or just the pace of things has pulled your attention away—not because you stopped caring, but because you were doing your best to manage what was in front of you.

If so, I hope this lands gently:

Love never stopped speaking.

Presence never withdrew.

Nothing essential was lost.

Sometimes the most profound moments of return come not from striving or searching, but from noticing—quietly, kindly—where our attention has been, and allowing it to rest again.

With warmth,

Rev. Tracey