Acquire the habit of speaking to God as if you were alone with

When Saint Alphonsus Liguori wrote, “Acquire the habit of speaking to God as if you were alone with Him, familiarly and with confidence and love, as to the dearest and most loving of friends,” he was teaching not a ritual, but a relationship — the sacred art of speaking to the Divine not as a distant ruler, but as a beloved companion. His words are drawn from a heart that knew the storms of human weakness and the quiet strength of divine intimacy. For Liguori, prayer was not to be cloaked in ceremony or formality, but to flow like conversation — honest, unguarded, filled with affection and trust. To speak to God as one speaks to a friend is to restore what the soul has forgotten: that love, not fear, is the true foundation of faith.

Born in eighteenth-century Italy, Alphonsus Liguori lived in an age when faith was often bound by strictness and fear. But his heart burned with gentleness and compassion. He saw that many people prayed to God as servants trembling before a master, not as children running to a Father. Through his writings, sermons, and music, he sought to heal this distance. His quote, radiant in its simplicity, came from his lifelong teaching that the Creator desires not eloquence, but sincerity. To speak with God familiarly — to talk with Him in the stillness of the heart, in the ordinary rhythm of life — is to rediscover the divine friendship that has always been ours.

This wisdom is as ancient as humanity itself. The prophets of old often walked with God in solitude and conversation. Abraham spoke with Him beneath the stars. Moses, face radiant with divine fire, spoke “as a man speaks to his friend.” And David, the psalmist-king, poured out his soul in song — his praises, his doubts, his anguish, his joy — all before the listening ear of God. None of these holy ones addressed the Infinite with stiffness or distance. They came as they were: weary, broken, but filled with longing. Their greatness was not in their perfection, but in their intimacy. This is what Alphonsus Liguori sought to teach — that prayer is not an act of performance, but of presence.

Consider the example of Teresa of Ávila, the mystic who, centuries before Liguori, taught her sisters that “prayer is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends.” Teresa, like Alphonsus, believed that God desires familiarity, not formality. Once, in a moment of frustration during her spiritual trials, she said aloud to God, “If this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few!” Yet such words were not irreverent — they were born of closeness. She spoke with the honesty of love, not the fear of judgment. This kind of friendship with God transforms prayer from duty into dialogue, from ritual into relationship.

To speak to God “with confidence and love” is to strip away pretense. It is to bring the soul naked before its Maker — not only the noble parts, but the wounded, the doubting, the ashamed. Many people fear such honesty, believing that God seeks perfection. But Alphonsus reminds us that the Divine Friend seeks truth, not polish. The child who runs to his father does not measure his words; the friend who trusts another does not disguise his wounds. In the same way, when we speak to God in this familiar tone, we awaken the most powerful form of prayer — one that binds the human and divine with threads of tenderness.

Liguori’s teaching also carries a hidden strength: prayer as companionship. To speak with God constantly — while walking, working, or waiting — is to make the presence of God a dwelling, not a destination. When one learns this habit, solitude no longer feels empty, for it is filled with conversation. The burden of sorrow lightens, for it is shared. Even joy becomes brighter, for it is offered in gratitude. Such constant communion is not the privilege of saints alone; it is the inheritance of every soul that dares to believe that the Almighty desires intimacy.

So, my children, learn this ancient art. Speak to God as to a friend — not only in temples or at altars, but in the quiet of your heart, in the midst of your labor, in the ache of your longing. Tell Him your fears; share with Him your small joys. When anger or doubt rises, speak that too — for the Friend who is Love can bear all things. Do not wait for perfect words or moments; begin where you are, with whatever voice you have. Over time, as Liguori taught, this habit will become second nature, and your life itself will become a prayer.

And remember this final truth: the greatest richness of the soul is not found in what it asks from God, but in its friendship with Him. To walk in that friendship is to never truly be alone. For when the heart learns to speak with love, the silence of heaven becomes a conversation, and the Infinite — once thought distant — becomes the dearest and most faithful of companions.