February: Listening
February 2026 Blog
February: Listening
February 2026 Blog
February: Listening
February 2026 Blog
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
By Maude Harrison-Hudson, M.Div.
February invites me into listening, not the active kind that searches for answers, but the deeper listening that comes after being brought to a full stop.
January stopped me in my tracks
Not with warning.
Not with negotiation.
My body spoke first, and it spoke loudly enough that I could no longer explain it away, push through it, or spiritualize my way past it. What I thought was stamina turned out to be fragility. What I thought was discipline turned out to be delay.
January stripped me of momentum. It narrowed my world to hospital rooms test results, waiting, and the slow realization that I am not as invincible as I once imagined myself to be. The calendar kept turning, but I could not keep pace with it. I was forced into stillness, not the chosen kind, but the kind that humbles.
And yet.
February arrives not as a demand, but as an invitation.
After the shock, after the fear, after the body’s urgent insistence, I find myself listening in new ways. Listening to fatigue without judgment. Listening to my limits without shame. Listening for God not in productivity or perseverance, but in breath, rest and restraint.
February listening is quieter. It asks few questions, it notices more.
It listens to what the body has been trying to say for years.
It listens to grief stored in muscle and bone.
It listens for grace in slowness.
January stopped me in my tracts. February teaches me how to stand again, slowly, attentively, with reverence for what it costs simply to be alive.
There was no gentle transition, no time to prepare. One moment I was moving through my days with familiar routines and expectations; the next, I was hearing words I had not anticipated. We are going to admit you to the hospital. Plans dissolved. Certainty evaporated. What followed was a serious illness that demanded immediate attention and full surrender.
By the time February arrived, the crisis had passed, but the listening had begun.
February has a quieter energy. It does not insist; it invites. This is the month when the body no longer shouts in pain but speaks in subtler ways, through fatigue that settles unexpectedly, breath that requires awareness, and a need for rest that cannot be postponed. These signals are easy to ignore if one is determined to return to “normal.” February has asked me to do something harder: to pay attention.
I am learning to listen to my body with greater respect.
Listening now means noticing when standing becomes tiring and choosing to sit. It means honoring shortened energy without judgment. It means understanding that healing does not move in a straight line. There are days when strength feels close and days when it recedes. Neither is a failure. Both are information.
Listening also means resisting the urge to rush recovery. I have spent much of my life pushing through, through grief, through responsibility, through expectation. February has gently but firmly interrupted that habit. It has reminded me that endurance is not always the same as wisdom.
I am listening inwardly as well.
Fear still visits, often quietly. It appears in the early hours of the morning or in the space between medical appointments. It asks questions I cannot answer. February has not required me to banish fear, only to acknowledge it and place it somewhere safer than my own imagination. Each time it arises, I return it, again and again, to God.
This kind of listening requires trust. Trust that slowing down is not regression. Trust that rest can be sacred. Trust that God is present not only in moments of clarity, but in uncertainty itself.
There have been moments of unexpected grace threaded through this month. A lighthearted exchange with a nurse. A moment of laughter that surprises me. A reminder that even in recovery, life continues to offer connection, humor, and tenderness. These moments feel like small affirmations that I am still very much here.
What has sustained me most during this time is community.
When my own prayers felt thin or repetitive, others prayed for me. Friends, fellows, family, and colleagues reached out from across the country. Some sent words; others simply showed up. February has reminded me that listening also includes receiving, allowing myself to be supported without minimizing my need.
As the month unfolds, I am practicing a slower, more attentive way of being. I am learning to measure days not by productivity, but by presence. I am allowing healing to unfold at its own pace, trusting that attentiveness itself is a form of faith.
January stopped me.
February is teaching me how to listen.
And listening, I am choosing, again, the world of the living.
This month, I am listening for what my body needs rather than what my will demands.
This month I am grateful for those who listen to me.
This month, I trust that God speaks in the quiet.
A February Prayer
God of quiet wisdom, slow me enough to hear what I have been rushing past.
Teach me to listen, not only to You, but to the body You have entrusted to my care.
When fatigue speaks, let me respond with kindness
When fear arises, steady me with Your presence.
When I am tempted to hurry healing, remind me that You are not in a rush.
Thank You for the hands that have cared for me, for the voices that have prayed when my own felt thin, for the grace that arrives softly and without demand.
Help me trust the pauses, honor the limits, and receive each day as it comes.
In the quiet of this February, keep me attentive, grateful, and willing, choosing again and again the world of the living.
Amen.
This blog is dedicated to the Late Gerri Durham, my seven-year-old daughter who was born and died in February. Rest in peace my daughter.
February invites me into listening, not the active kind that searches for answers, but the deeper listening that comes after being brought to a full stop.
January stopped me in my tracks
Not with warning.
Not with negotiation.
My body spoke first, and it spoke loudly enough that I could no longer explain it away, push through it, or spiritualize my way past it. What I thought was stamina turned out to be fragility. What I thought was discipline turned out to be delay.
January stripped me of momentum. It narrowed my world to hospital rooms test results, waiting, and the slow realization that I am not as invincible as I once imagined myself to be. The calendar kept turning, but I could not keep pace with it. I was forced into stillness, not the chosen kind, but the kind that humbles.
And yet.
February arrives not as a demand, but as an invitation.
After the shock, after the fear, after the body’s urgent insistence, I find myself listening in new ways. Listening to fatigue without judgment. Listening to my limits without shame. Listening for God not in productivity or perseverance, but in breath, rest and restraint.
February listening is quieter. It asks few questions, it notices more.
It listens to what the body has been trying to say for years.
It listens to grief stored in muscle and bone.
It listens for grace in slowness.
January stopped me in my tracts. February teaches me how to stand again, slowly, attentively, with reverence for what it costs simply to be alive.
There was no gentle transition, no time to prepare. One moment I was moving through my days with familiar routines and expectations; the next, I was hearing words I had not anticipated. We are going to admit you to the hospital. Plans dissolved. Certainty evaporated. What followed was a serious illness that demanded immediate attention and full surrender.
By the time February arrived, the crisis had passed, but the listening had begun.
February has a quieter energy. It does not insist; it invites. This is the month when the body no longer shouts in pain but speaks in subtler ways, through fatigue that settles unexpectedly, breath that requires awareness, and a need for rest that cannot be postponed. These signals are easy to ignore if one is determined to return to “normal.” February has asked me to do something harder: to pay attention.
I am learning to listen to my body with greater respect.
Listening now means noticing when standing becomes tiring and choosing to sit. It means honoring shortened energy without judgment. It means understanding that healing does not move in a straight line. There are days when strength feels close and days when it recedes. Neither is a failure. Both are information.
Listening also means resisting the urge to rush recovery. I have spent much of my life pushing through, through grief, through responsibility, through expectation. February has gently but firmly interrupted that habit. It has reminded me that endurance is not always the same as wisdom.
I am listening inwardly as well.
Fear still visits, often quietly. It appears in the early hours of the morning or in the space between medical appointments. It asks questions I cannot answer. February has not required me to banish fear, only to acknowledge it and place it somewhere safer than my own imagination. Each time it arises, I return it, again and again, to God.
This kind of listening requires trust. Trust that slowing down is not regression. Trust that rest can be sacred. Trust that God is present not only in moments of clarity, but in uncertainty itself.
There have been moments of unexpected grace threaded through this month. A lighthearted exchange with a nurse. A moment of laughter that surprises me. A reminder that even in recovery, life continues to offer connection, humor, and tenderness. These moments feel like small affirmations that I am still very much here.
What has sustained me most during this time is community.
When my own prayers felt thin or repetitive, others prayed for me. Friends, fellows, family, and colleagues reached out from across the country. Some sent words; others simply showed up. February has reminded me that listening also includes receiving, allowing myself to be supported without minimizing my need.
As the month unfolds, I am practicing a slower, more attentive way of being. I am learning to measure days not by productivity, but by presence. I am allowing healing to unfold at its own pace, trusting that attentiveness itself is a form of faith.
January stopped me.
February is teaching me how to listen.
And listening, I am choosing, again, the world of the living.
This month, I am listening for what my body needs rather than what my will demands.
This month I am grateful for those who listen to me.
This month, I trust that God speaks in the quiet.
A February Prayer
God of quiet wisdom, slow me enough to hear what I have been rushing past.
Teach me to listen, not only to You, but to the body You have entrusted to my care.
When fatigue speaks, let me respond with kindness
When fear arises, steady me with Your presence.
When I am tempted to hurry healing, remind me that You are not in a rush.
Thank You for the hands that have cared for me, for the voices that have prayed when my own felt thin, for the grace that arrives softly and without demand.
Help me trust the pauses, honor the limits, and receive each day as it comes.
In the quiet of this February, keep me attentive, grateful, and willing, choosing again and again the world of the living.
Amen.
This blog is dedicated to the Late Gerri Durham, my seven-year-old daughter who was born and died in February. Rest in peace my daughter.
February invites me into listening, not the active kind that searches for answers, but the deeper listening that comes after being brought to a full stop.
January stopped me in my tracks
Not with warning.
Not with negotiation.
My body spoke first, and it spoke loudly enough that I could no longer explain it away, push through it, or spiritualize my way past it. What I thought was stamina turned out to be fragility. What I thought was discipline turned out to be delay.
January stripped me of momentum. It narrowed my world to hospital rooms test results, waiting, and the slow realization that I am not as invincible as I once imagined myself to be. The calendar kept turning, but I could not keep pace with it. I was forced into stillness, not the chosen kind, but the kind that humbles.
And yet.
February arrives not as a demand, but as an invitation.
After the shock, after the fear, after the body’s urgent insistence, I find myself listening in new ways. Listening to fatigue without judgment. Listening to my limits without shame. Listening for God not in productivity or perseverance, but in breath, rest and restraint.
February listening is quieter. It asks few questions, it notices more.
It listens to what the body has been trying to say for years.
It listens to grief stored in muscle and bone.
It listens for grace in slowness.
January stopped me in my tracts. February teaches me how to stand again, slowly, attentively, with reverence for what it costs simply to be alive.
There was no gentle transition, no time to prepare. One moment I was moving through my days with familiar routines and expectations; the next, I was hearing words I had not anticipated. We are going to admit you to the hospital. Plans dissolved. Certainty evaporated. What followed was a serious illness that demanded immediate attention and full surrender.
By the time February arrived, the crisis had passed, but the listening had begun.
February has a quieter energy. It does not insist; it invites. This is the month when the body no longer shouts in pain but speaks in subtler ways, through fatigue that settles unexpectedly, breath that requires awareness, and a need for rest that cannot be postponed. These signals are easy to ignore if one is determined to return to “normal.” February has asked me to do something harder: to pay attention.
I am learning to listen to my body with greater respect.
Listening now means noticing when standing becomes tiring and choosing to sit. It means honoring shortened energy without judgment. It means understanding that healing does not move in a straight line. There are days when strength feels close and days when it recedes. Neither is a failure. Both are information.
Listening also means resisting the urge to rush recovery. I have spent much of my life pushing through, through grief, through responsibility, through expectation. February has gently but firmly interrupted that habit. It has reminded me that endurance is not always the same as wisdom.
I am listening inwardly as well.
Fear still visits, often quietly. It appears in the early hours of the morning or in the space between medical appointments. It asks questions I cannot answer. February has not required me to banish fear, only to acknowledge it and place it somewhere safer than my own imagination. Each time it arises, I return it, again and again, to God.
This kind of listening requires trust. Trust that slowing down is not regression. Trust that rest can be sacred. Trust that God is present not only in moments of clarity, but in uncertainty itself.
There have been moments of unexpected grace threaded through this month. A lighthearted exchange with a nurse. A moment of laughter that surprises me. A reminder that even in recovery, life continues to offer connection, humor, and tenderness. These moments feel like small affirmations that I am still very much here.
What has sustained me most during this time is community.
When my own prayers felt thin or repetitive, others prayed for me. Friends, fellows, family, and colleagues reached out from across the country. Some sent words; others simply showed up. February has reminded me that listening also includes receiving, allowing myself to be supported without minimizing my need.
As the month unfolds, I am practicing a slower, more attentive way of being. I am learning to measure days not by productivity, but by presence. I am allowing healing to unfold at its own pace, trusting that attentiveness itself is a form of faith.
January stopped me.
February is teaching me how to listen.
And listening, I am choosing, again, the world of the living.
This month, I am listening for what my body needs rather than what my will demands.
This month I am grateful for those who listen to me.
This month, I trust that God speaks in the quiet.
A February Prayer
God of quiet wisdom, slow me enough to hear what I have been rushing past.
Teach me to listen, not only to You, but to the body You have entrusted to my care.
When fatigue speaks, let me respond with kindness
When fear arises, steady me with Your presence.
When I am tempted to hurry healing, remind me that You are not in a rush.
Thank You for the hands that have cared for me, for the voices that have prayed when my own felt thin, for the grace that arrives softly and without demand.
Help me trust the pauses, honor the limits, and receive each day as it comes.
In the quiet of this February, keep me attentive, grateful, and willing, choosing again and again the world of the living.
Amen.
This blog is dedicated to the Late Gerri Durham, my seven-year-old daughter who was born and died in February. Rest in peace my daughter.