Hearing God in the Most Unexpected Places

Jesus, Simple Minds, and Me

There was a particularly painful time in my life when I truly wondered if God was even aware of my suffering. It was a lonely, desperate season. But God often speaks to me through music, and I’ve received many answers and much-needed insight in that way.

One day, while driving and pouring out my heart to the Lord, I had the 80s station playing in the background. Tears filled my eyes as I cried to Him about my struggles. Just before the next song started, I felt Him say, “Listen.” So I did.

To my surprise, “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds started playing.

I actually snorted and said out loud, “How can You possibly use this song?”

Never underestimate Jesus.

As the music played, the Spirit unfolded its message to me, line by line:

“Won’t you come see about me? / I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it, baby”

Right away, Jesus was beckoning me closer—not from neediness, but out of a deep desire for connection. “Alone, dancing” conjured the image of Him treading the winepress alone, pressing out the grapes of sacrifice in a rhythm only He could keep. But it wasn’t a march of misery—it was a graceful, deliberate dance. He seemed to be saying, “I’m in this solitary place for you. Come see what I’m creating from it.” The message of Gethsemane all over again: a lonely struggle infused with deep, abiding love. The phrase “you know it, baby” felt shockingly tender—like He trusted I already knew His heart.

“Tell me your troubles and doubts / Giving me everything inside and out”

Now He turned the invitation around. It wasn’t just about me seeing Him—it was Him seeing me. My raw, unfiltered self. Jesus became the listener, urging me to pour it all out, just like He did at the cross. His “everything” became the wine of redemption, flowing freely, inviting me to trust Him with my chaos.

“Love’s strange, so real in the dark / Think of the tender things that we were working on”

Love—especially His kind of love—is strange. It grows in shadowy places, in suffering, and in silence. Yet it’s always real. The “tender things” brought to mind those sacred, quiet moments we’d shared before: prayers, whispered hopes, small trusts. Seeds planted in secret, still growing. He was drawing me back to that connection, gently.

“Slow change may pull us apart / When the light gets into your heart, baby”

This line felt like a warning and a promise. Life’s slow shifts can create distance, but His light—His truth, His presence—will always draw me back. It echoed His words in John: “I am the light of the world.” He was reminding me: even if I wander, He remains.

“Don’t you, forget about me / Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t”

The chorus pulsed with urgency—like a heartbeat. Jesus, the eternal One, was pleading not to be forgotten. Not from insecurity, but from longing. “I stand at the door and knock…” He doesn’t force His way in. He simply asks me to remember the dance He’s been dancing all along—for me.

“Will you stand above me? / Look my way, never love me / Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling / Down, down, down”

This was Him wondering about my response. Would I look down on His humility? Would I reject Him? The rain felt like tears—His, over my hesitation. Or maybe grace—softening the hardened places between us.

“Will you recognize me? / Call my name or walk on by?”

This line cut deep. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, would I know Him when He appeared? Would I call His name—or just keep walking? And still, the rain kept falling. He never stops reaching, even if I turn away.

“Don’t you try and pretend / It’s my feeling we’ll win in the end / I won’t harm you or touch your defenses / Vanity, insecurity”

He sees past all the masks I wear. He knows the fear behind my pretense—the way I brace myself for disappointment, for rejection. But His voice is steady, kind. “We’ll win in the end,” He promises, not because I’m strong, but because He already overcame. And even as He sees every fragile wall I’ve built, He doesn’t bulldoze them. He honors my defenses—touching nothing without permission—while quietly, patiently, loving me into trust.

“Going to take you apart / I’ll put us back together at heart, baby”

This was the moment that undid me. Jesus, both the deconstructor and the restorer. Like the potter in Jeremiah, He’s willing to take me apart—strip away the false layers—and rebuild something new, something united with Him.

“As you walk on by / Will you call my name? / When you walk away / Or will you walk away?”

The final lines left me breathless. A holy pause. Jesus watching me at a crossroads, asking—not demanding—whether I’ll call out to Him, whether I’ll walk with Him or walk away. The echo of rain lingered, the sound of grace still falling, waiting, hoping.

Never underestimate Jesus.
He can use anything—even an 80s pop song—to reach out to us in our darkest moments. That day, He met me right where I was, in the middle of my tears and doubts, and reminded me that He sees me, loves me, and is still dancing alone—just waiting for me to join Him.

Have you ever had a moment when God broke through the noise—through a song, a stranger, a scene in a movie, or even a fleeting thought?
I’d love to hear your story. Feel free to share it in the comments or send me a message. Your experience might be the exact reminder someone else is praying for.

Let’s encourage one another:
He’s always reaching. Sometimes, all we have to do is listen.

And yes—I know it sounds ridiculous, but “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” is basically a hymn to me now. Go ahead and laugh. Jesus probably is too.