By Von C. Howard
There’s a peculiar space I’ve found myself dwelling in lately, a space that’s not quite despair, but not pure joy either. It’s the uncertain space between laughter and cries. At 46, I’ve lived long enough to understand life moves in seasons, yet I’m still young enough to believe I can control them. Standing here entering mid-life, I’m realizing it doesn’t work that way.
I think of moments when laughter fills my home, like listening to my daughter and son trade sly, quick jokes at the dinner table. Those playful roasts crack me up every time. I laugh because I’m proud; it tells me they feel safe to be themselves. Yet when the house grows quiet and I’m alone, questions rise: Am I truly being the man God created me to be? Am I leaving a legacy my children can build on? Why can I see God’s fingerprints everywhere, yet struggle to hear His voice clearly?
I see God’s face in so many places. I saw Him when my wife and I survived seasons that could have broken us apart. I saw Him in my children’s first steps into classrooms. I saw Him in the faces of men who mentored me and the younger men I now mentor. I see Him in my community, the resilience I inherited from generations before me.
I think of my grandmother, singing hymns in the kitchen while balancing the stress of life, praying for her family’s safety and well-being. I think of my father, who overcame his own struggles to protect me and give me a better chance. I think of my mother, raising four children into adulthood with grit and grace, even when doors were closed to her. Their sacrifices are the bedrock beneath my feet; their faith is the quiet current that carries me.
But I don’t always hear God clearly. I remember praying hard before accepting a leadership role in my fraternity and just as hard before making career changes, stepping away from comfort into jobs that challenged my time, ethics, and family. In both, I wanted God to hand me clear and direct signs. Instead, there was silence. That silence shook me. Then Proverbs 3:5–6 reminded me: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” Sometimes the stepping itself is the lesson.
I’ve felt that same silence in grief. I can still picture caskets being lowered and whispering, Why them, Lord? Why now? I could see God’s face in the love surrounding us—but His voice? Quiet. Psalm 34:18 sustained me: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Hearing God isn’t always about words; sometimes it’s about presence.
This space between laughter and cries is generational. My grandmother’s hymns, my father’s perseverance, my mother’s determination, they walked this uncertain path, balancing labor, worry, faith, and hope. Their example reminds me God’s work often looks like hands that show up, prayers that persist, and ordinary days that become extraordinary by grace.
And I know I’m not alone. So many of us smile in public while wrestling with private questions. We want God to hand us clear and direct signs, and when they don’t appear, we doubt. But doubt is not the end.
So, what do we do when we can see God’s face but can’t hear His voice clearly?
Embrace both laughter and cries. Ecclesiastes 3:4: “There is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
Find God in the ordinary. Romans 1:20: His presence is visible in creation, our children’s jokes, acts of kindness, and sunrises after sleepless nights.
Trust that silence is not absence. 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” Silence can strengthen faith and build trust.
To anyone walking in this space, know this: you are not broken for laughing through tears, nor faithless for wanting to hear more clearly. Sometimes silence is the invitation to grow, act in faith, and rest in His nearness. Psalm 46:10: “Be still and know that I am God.”
I keep walking, carrying my grandmother’s hymns, my father’s lessons, my mother’s perseverance, my children’s laughter, and my own tears. I walk knowing God’s face is always visible, even when His voice isn’t. Yet even in that silence, I trust He is still saying: You’ve got this, because I’ve got you.
