The Lost Art of Being Present

I've started to notice how rarely I'm doing just one thing. I make coffee and check my phone while the kettle boils. I go for a walk and put my earphones in. I watch something while answering messages. Even a few minutes of waiting can feel like a reason to reach for my phone.

None of these things are bad in themselves. Technology helps us stay connected and gives us access to so much. But I do wonder what happens when every quiet moment becomes something to fill.

We've almost eliminated boredom. Waiting for a bus, sitting in a café before a friend arrives, or walking somewhere used to leave room for our minds to wander. Now I often reach for my phone without even deciding to. Sometimes I unlock it, look at nothing in particular, and realise I just didn't want the empty moment.

But silence gives things room to rise. We might notice what we're feeling, remember someone we care about, or finally think through something we've been avoiding. And sometimes, in that quiet, we might think of God.

Silence gives things room to rise.

I also wonder whether constant consumption is affecting how present we are with other people. We can be sitting across from someone while our attention is pulled towards messages, notifications and conversations elsewhere. Staying connected is a gift, but being always available can be exhausting. Sometimes loving the person in front of us means letting someone on our phone wait.

This matters for our relationship with God, too. We have Bible apps, prayer apps, podcasts and endless Christian content — and much of it is genuinely helpful. But it's possible to consume a lot about God without spending much time with Him. I can listen to someone talk about prayer without actually praying. Even faith can become content.

"Be still, and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10). It sounds simple, but stillness can be difficult when we're used to filling every pause. Prayer asks us to stay — not to produce a feeling or find something new to consume, but to give God our attention.

Prayer asks us to stay — not to produce a feeling, but to give God our attention.

That's one reason I've come to appreciate the simple, physical things of faith: a Bible that's only a Bible, a Rosary in your hand, a quiet church. A paper Bible can't send a notification. It gives you nowhere else to go.

The Gospels tell us that Jesus often withdrew to quiet places to pray (Luke 5:16). There were always people who needed Him, and still He made room for silence. Perhaps solitude isn't an escape from loving others; perhaps it helps us return to them with our attention intact.

I don't think we need to throw away our phones or reject technology. But we might need to create some space around it: take a walk without headphones, leave the phone elsewhere during a meal, or sit quietly for a few minutes without putting something on. At first, it might feel boring. Maybe that's okay.

Attention is a form of love. The people we care about need more than our time; they need us to be there with them. And perhaps prayer is, in part, the choice to turn our attention towards God and make room to notice that He is already near.

We don't need more input every moment. Maybe we need space — to think, to listen, to notice the people around us, and to pray. Our lives are happening in ordinary places: around dinner tables, on walks, in quiet churches, and in kitchens while the kettle boils.

Perhaps one of the quietest rebellions available to us is simply to be where we are — and let the silence remain long enough to become full again.