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The Holy Spirit Never Stops Speaking to Us

Last updated on: November 9, 2026 at 9:15 pm   by Sherry Antonetti

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The Holy Spirit Never Stops Speaking to Us 2026-11-09T21:15:26-05:00 Sherry Antonetti

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It’s just, we often get so busy, we stop listening.

King Solomon always frightens me.  He started out so confident and holy, so devout and so humble, and winds up owned by his many wives in the end, controlled by appetite, custom, temper and others rather than obedient to God.  This is the man who built the temple.  The author of the Book of Wisdom, of Song of songs, who wanted an understanding heart, seems in his later years to have discarded that reality for a lesser one, even having known God’s voice directly.

He serves to me, as a cautionary tale, to trust to much in our own faith lives based on what has gone before.  We are always being considered by what we do and do not do now.  It means we need to never count the past moments when we cooperated with grace as anything other than a gift, and to recognize that we are capable at every moment, of rejecting that grace.   I do not consider it scrupulosity, because I know faith lives, like fitnes lives, like writing lives, like budgets, ebb and flow, and we are often weak.

So when I hear the Gospel about the wise and foolish virgins, I know there have been times when I have thought to deepen my relationship with God, and times when I have not.  My stomach hurts. I’m tired.  The dishes need to be done.  Prayer could be part of all of that –the suffering as an offering, and the fatigue, while the labor itself, a time of prayer.   It isn’t. I’m sitting here aching, eyes blinking, frantic to type out five hundred words not because I’m inspired but because i’m trying to get back into the discipline I’ve let slip over the years.

I miss being a deeper woman of faith.  The cure is to delve into it, to waste time with God, to stop making excuses.   I need the gradual burning away that is Advent.  Yes, I know it’s two weeks away.  I ordered andles.   In the meantime, my brain points out –you could say a rosary, or read the daily readings or listen to the mass, and I have no answer for my fault, my grievous fault, except to say, you  are right, and I am lesser each time I refuse it.

It’s a sin we don’t consider, sloth –where we fall away gradually until it feels too easy to be anywhere but fallen. The birds have eaten the seeds or the weeds have choked, and we have to beg please, Lord, please, plant more seeds.  Put them in my heart.  I need a mustard jar heart full of them, because I somehow keep wandering like the dumb distracted wilful sheep I am.  In the past, most of my life I’ve clung, and I want to cling again, and ever harder.  It’s just I feel eroded in some fashion.

Perhaps it was the affirmation of being published often, that made me feel my own faith reaffirmed, but it wasn’t.  It was my ego. And so God has let this dry spell of writing and publishing persist until I fully remember, it is so much straw and all a gift, so it should be always considered just that.  I’d had all the moments of glory, I must weather when it is otherwise willingly.   It’s part of why I write, to wander through my heart until I find myself hearing the Holy Spirit, my dear friend.

When I started my writing journey, I wanted to write like Saint Paul. Now a days, I want just to be able to hear the Holy Spirit whisper when I finish, “good work Sherry.  Tomorrow, begin again.”

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