There are stories we tell ourselves when no one else is around. A hurtful word from the past can linger, slowly becoming something we carry, something we begin to identify with. Over time, it turns into a voice that never really stops speaking. We repeat those words often enough that they start to feel true, shaping how we see ourselves and the world around us. Most of the time, we do not pause to notice those messages. We simply live with them and keep moving forward.

Those stories settle in quietly. They do not arrive with warning or demand attention. They become part of the background of our inner life, woven into the way we think and move through the world. Before we realize it, they feel familiar and trustworthy. They sound reasonable. Earned. They comment on our choices, our pace, our worth. They show up when the house finally goes quiet or when the day has asked more than we had to give. Over time, they begin to feel like truth simply because they have been around for so long.

Scripture takes us back to the beginning, to a garden where God walked closely with humanity. There was trust there. Ease. A shared life. Then another voice entered the story, and something shifted. Hiding replaced openness. Fear replaced peace. God’s first words were not sharp or hurried. They came as a gentle question.

Where are you?

And then another.

Who told you that?

It is a striking moment. God does not rush to correction. He does not begin with consequences. He pauses and draws attention to the source of the story Adam and Eve are suddenly living inside. A voice that had named something God never named. Nakedness. Fear. A sense of being exposed and lacking.

That question still carries weight.

Who told you that you were not enough?

Who told you that you should be further along by now?

Who told you that your weakness disqualifies you?

Some voices speak loudly. Others hum steadily in the background, shaping how we see ourselves without ever raising their volume. Shame has a way of repeating itself until it feels factual. Fear learns our patterns and meets us right on time. Achievement keeps score and rarely lets us rest.

God does not confirm those voices. He questions them.

There is something tender in the way God responds in the garden. Adam and Eve try to cover themselves, and God steps in to cover them himself. Care comes before direction. Presence comes before repair. God meets them in vulnerability and prepares them for what comes next.

That posture has not changed.

Jesus later speaks about a shepherd whose sheep recognize his voice. Recognition grows through relationship. It comes from walking together, from learning the sound of love and truth over time. The sheep do not analyze the voice. They know it.

Many of us want clarity, yet we live surrounded by noise. The invitation is not to strive harder but to slow down enough to notice what we are already listening to. To become curious about the stories shaping our inner life. To bring those stories into the light of God’s presence.

Sometimes listening to Jesus feels like relief. Sometimes it feels like being named rightly again. Sometimes it is simply the quiet assurance that you are seen and known.

God still asks gentle questions. Not to shame us, but to bring us home.

Where are you right now?

What voice has been explaining you to you?

Does that voice sound like Jesus?

There is space to pause here. Space to listen. Space to let the voice that calls you by name rise above the rest.

And when other voices speak, you can ask the same question God once asked in the garden.

Who told you that?

Then wait. He is still speaking.