Remembering What Comes from Above

 

A personal reflection on the sacred, the word, and prayer

I never imagined how much weight a single word could carry—until one day, in the middle of a trivial conversation, I said something I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t a blasphemy or an insult. It was more of a careless joke about something that deserved greater respect. And in that moment, I felt a kind of emptiness inside. As if I had strayed—however slightly—from the path I try to walk each day with intention and reverence.

Over time, I came to understand that what comes from above—what is sacred, what originates beyond our reasoning or emotions—must not be treated lightly. Some words may seem simple, but they carry eternal weight. Some concepts may be familiar, heard a thousand times, yet they are pure fire when approached with a prepared heart.

It took time for me to realize that. It wasn’t a sudden revelation or something you grasp after a single reading. It was more like a collection of moments—mistakes, whispers, silences, and prayers. Especially prayers.

I remember one night when I was especially burdened. Life was pulling me in a thousand directions, and I felt unable to hold it all together. Work, family, health, dreams. I knelt by my bed—not out of habit, but because I had nowhere else to turn. And then I spoke words I wasn’t familiar with. They weren’t formulas or learned phrases; they were simply mine. They came from deep within—sincere, broken, but real.

What happened next is something I can’t describe precisely. It wasn’t a vision or an audible voice. It was more like a quiet breeze inside me that settled in my chest and mind. As if an invisible presence whispered, “I’m here. I hear you. And what you’re doing now is sacred.”

That’s when I understood: not everything we say has the same value. Some words are light and have little effect. But others come from above—and those must be spoken with care.

In today’s world—where social media often turns any opinion into spectacle and where shallowness often wears the mask of depth—I strive to remember this principle: sacred things are not shouted. They are not shown off. They are not marketed.

The sacred is whispered. Lived. Protected. And above all, it’s spoken carefully, and only when the inner spirit—that quiet compass awakened by sincere prayer—prompts it.

I’ve learned that not every moment is the right one to speak certain truths. Sometimes silence has more power than speech. Sometimes a look, or a quiet act of love, communicates far more than an hour-long talk. And that’s not cowardice or evasion. That’s respect. That’s discernment.

And that’s obedience to a law that doesn’t come from men—but from above.

There have been many times I’ve chosen to remain silent when others expected me to speak. In meetings, in debates, even in family moments, I’ve felt that inner restraint saying, “Not yet. Wait. This isn’t yours to say.” And when I’ve obeyed that restraint, I’ve felt peace.

But the times I ignored that prompting and spoke out of impulse—out of a need to be right or be heard—I felt a sort of emptiness afterward. A kind of self-condemnation. Not from others, but from myself. Because I knew I had stepped ahead of the moment. That I hadn’t spoken from the spirit, but from ego, or anxiety.

I’ve experienced firsthand what that scripture teaches: without prayer—without that connection that tunes us to the divine—our words lose their power. And not only lose power; they can even turn against us. Because to speak without the spirit is to speak from the flesh. And the flesh, on its own, produces no lasting life.

Today I try to be more careful with my words. Before I share a strong opinion, offer advice, or bear witness to something I believe to be true, I pause. I breathe. And if I can, I pray.

Not as a ritual or formality—but because I need to know if what I’m about to say comes from above or just from me. And if I feel that sweet impression—that clarity that comes without force—then I speak. Otherwise, I remain silent. Because I’ve learned there’s no shame in silence. In fact, many times silence is a sign of wisdom.

And more importantly, a sign of reverence for what is sacred.

There are moments, however, when one must speak. Moments when the soul burns and you can’t hold back what’s inside. In those moments, the words flow with power, with conviction, with a peace you can’t manufacture. In those moments, the voice trembles not from fear, but from truth. And when you finish speaking, you know it wasn’t really you. That someone spoke through you.

Those are the moments I treasure most. Not because they make me feel important, but because they remind me that what comes from above still flows—if one remains worthy, attentive, and in constant prayer.

Over the years, I’ve realized it’s not just what you say that matters. It’s how you say it. And why. The tone, the intention, the spirit behind the words is just as important as the words themselves.

You can quote scripture, ancient wisdom, or philosophy—but if there’s no love or spiritual direction behind it, it becomes noise. And the world already has too much noise. What it needs are guided voices. Not perfect, but pure. Not worldly-wise, but clean-hearted.

Once, while talking with my son, he asked me something deep. Instead of answering right away, I said, “Give me a moment. Let me think.” I went to my room, closed the door, and prayed. When I returned, what I told him came with a clarity that wasn’t mine. And when I saw him nod with teary eyes, I knew that conversation was sacred.

Not because of the words—but because of the spirit wrapped around them.

We live in a time where speaking is easy. But receiving the spirit before speaking remains an art. One that isn’t taught in schools, podcasts, or self-help books. It’s learned on your knees. It’s learned by listening more than talking. It’s learned through failure, forgiveness, and trying again.

And it’s in that slow process that we are refined. Not to become better speakers, but better servants. Not to get more likes, but more light.

Today, when I witness a conversation transformed by a wise word, or see someone say little but transmit much, or hear a simple prayer that moves people to tears—I realize there is still hope.

Because there are still those who understand that the sacred is not improvised. That what comes from above is received—not invented. And that the only way to speak without condemnation… is to speak with prayer.

And that is what I try to do—every day of my life.