Waiting is hard. It tests and forms us. We’ve been in a transition, a waiting period, for what seems like an eternity. When we were young, we’d pray and move on impulse, emotion mixed with faith. Recently entering our 50’s, we’re less inclined to trust those impulses and recognize a deeper calling toward communion in these periods of uncertainty. When everything in us screams for the known contours of structure, when we long for answers but instead are filled with important questions, we pause and remain, almost intuitively. We’re not afraid of taking risks and making decisions; it’s that we sense the invitation to trust more implicitly until the Shepherd releases our souls, and our train arrives.
The other day, I pictured this image (I asked AI to draw it), of a person waiting for a train. Usually, when we go on trips, we know the departure and arrival times and plan accordingly. In this journey of faith, sometimes waiting is the means and the end of God’s plan. Our minds quickly go to all of the historical figures in Scripture who waited, sometimes against all odds. Many never received the promises and died in a posture of waiting, trusting, and believing. It seems God really digs when humanity pauses to consider the Spirit’s impulse and invitation.
Do I want to move ahead with intention and speed? Yes. Does anything about now seeing the train, even which direction it may come from, bring joy? No. My poor ego! We can live lives of faith that look so exciting, so purpose-filled, even enviable perhaps when we’re in charge, setting the course, the timetables, determining outcomes. How dull and faithless we look when we’re in a posture of waiting. Waiting is illogical; it wastes our time. If I don’t start making decisions, I may waste away on this bench and become a source of ridicule.
Waiting purges the soul, challenges its insecurities, and places a mirror in front of us: Who do you trust? Who is your provider? What are your motives? Who gives you purpose?
Waiting makes us raw, increases our sensibilities, and shuts out the noise. The longer we wait, the more we invest ourselves in an outcome that is saturated with peace and the knowing that God, no matter the outcome, is indeed with us. Are we willing to pay the price for that assurance? Waiting is a cross, a surrender, and a trust that it is better to die waiting for the train than to scurry about to busyness for its own sake.
When we are waiting, we can experience moments of sweet affirmation, but for the most part, we’re battling with hope. We feel aligned with lament, though we know we’re not abandoned; it can feel like it. Has the conductor taken another route? Am I on the right track? Did the train already pass me by?
We are given no signs from God; no prophets are left, and none of us knows how long this will be.
psalm 74:9 NIV
I take some comfort in the formative process in this time of waiting. I say some comfort. What I really long for is the faint whistle of the train in the distance, along with the unmistakable plume of smoke. Here it comes! Gather your belongings, the waiting is over!
We long, we hope, and we wait for Christ to be our unmistakable answer. He has come, and we believe that Jesus will come again. It’s this middle part, this journey of faith, that has me, and perhaps you, stuck on a bench.