I continue to process these thoughts as I listen to the Holy Spirit, growing in the area of listening. There's something about physical exertion that clarifies the mind, strips away pretense, reveals what's really occupying our thoughts. And what I've discovered is both humbling and hopeful: I'm more in tune with the Holy Spirit when I'm pushing my body than when I'm sitting still in comfortable prayer.
This wasn't something I planned or orchestrated. I didn't set out to make my workouts into spiritual practices. In fact, I've always resisted the idea of needing external motivation—beats, playlists, podcasts—to sustain physical effort as I've stated before. The pure joy of exerting my body has always been enough. Running outdoors without noise in my ears feels like the most natural state in the world.
My return to the gym was a startling experience with the music that make those early visits feel less like sanctuary and more like endurance test. Terrible lyrics at four-thirty in the morning have a way of disrupting even the most disciplined mental space. For the first time, I found myself reaching for noise-canceling earbuds, loading up worship music, creating my own environment within the one I couldn't control.
And that's when the Holy Spirit showed up in ways I hadn't anticipated.
As I lose count of my repetitions—not from distraction, but from deeper attention. Prayers rise unexpectedly for people and situations I had neglected to lift up to God. My ability to listen, to truly hear, felt amplified in the very act of physical strain. It is as if the exertion created space, burned away the mental clutter, and it leaves me open to the voice I can easily miss in quieter, more "spiritual" moments.
This raises an uncomfortable truth: What does it mean to be in tune with the Holy Spirit continually? Not just during designated prayer times or when we remember to check in, but throughout the mundane, sweaty, repetitive moments of our days?
If I can access God in what I initially perceived as a hostile environment—poor music, early hour, physical exhaustion—then the barrier has never been the circumstances. The barrier has been my awareness, my willingness to recognize that the access is always there, unchanging regardless of my situation.
We often treat communion with God as something we do rather than something we inhabit. We schedule it, plan for it, wait for the right conditions. But what if being in tune with the Holy Spirit isn't about creating perfect moments but about recognizing the unbroken connection that already exists?
The workouts haven't gotten easier. The gym's music hasn't improved. But my understanding of access has fundamentally shifted. I'm learning that God doesn't wait for me to reach a certain state of readiness or circumstance of calm. The invitation stands in every moment—the frustrated, the tired, the distracted, the ordinary.
There's something beautifully democratic about this realization. If the Holy Spirit speaks while I'm struggling through a workout in a less-than-ideal environment, then there's truly nowhere I can go where that voice is unavailable. No crisis too consuming. No distraction too complete. No noise too loud.
Father, help me never take for granted or ignore the access I have to You. Help me remember that You're not waiting for me to get my life in order, my schedule cleared, my mind quiet. You're here now, in the noise and the strain and the beautiful, exhausting work of simply living—always speaking, always available, always near.
