We are not conditioned to waiting. We are an impatient people, accustomed to things happening right now.
- When my Prime delivery takes more than 24 hours, I’m perplexed. Where is it?
- When I place my grocery order, I expect it to be ready in an hour. Not tomorrow.
- When I send a text, I anticipate three little dots popping up so I can see a response is pending…now.
- Waiting feels hard, tedious, arduous, of another era.
- We used to wait; and now? Now we are entertained.
…
Despite so much of life happening quickly and instantaneously, the reality is that much of it takes place much more slowly. Perhaps this is why we seek the control the instant provides. The things of life that shape us rarely resolve in one-click and seldom come to fruition overnight.
So how do we wait well? And why is important that we learn to do so?
It seems it is in the waiting that we are made like Christ. It’s in the waiting that we find our belief—or rather, we find our mustard seed and the God who sustains it. It’s in the waiting that glory is brought to the only one worthy of it.
It’s through struggles and trials our faith is made strong, made genuine, made whole. Peter reminds us of such when he writes,
“In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 1:6-7).
The hallmark of waiting is well is remembering that life is really not about us at all. Our waiting refines our faith, our most precious gift, and it culminates in the glorification of God.
In John 11, we read the story of Lazarus. Jesus is notified of Lazarus’s illness, and he proclaims it will not lead to death, but to the glory of God. And yet, we have this:
“Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was” (v. 5-6).
Because he loved them, it says, he waited.
This is the part of the story where I feel indignation. Come right away, Jesus. Your friend is dying. We are sick over our grief. Instead, he waits until Lazarus is not just dead, but four days buried. The Son of God will be glorified through this resurrection, he’s promised them; and nothing says, “Trust me” like waiting.
Mary and Martha’s suffering, Lazarus’s death, even Jesus’ own tears, all served purpose beyond themselves. God used this to showcase his glory and ignite belief (v. 45). And this is where we’re forced to decide:
Do we believe?
Do we believe the waiting, the suffering, will indeed be used for our good and God’s glory, like he promises? It would’ve been simpler, less painful, dare I say easy, for Jesus to heal Lazarus right away, on Mary and Martha’s timeline; but the waiting, it seems, is the source of deep-rooted belief.
I’d like to tell you that my own faith has been solidified as much on the mountaintops as in the trenches, but I’d be lying. It’s in the trenches that my faith has been proven. Perhaps more accurate: It’s God who has been proven. It’s been in the monotony of motherhood, my frustration with my child’s lingering poor attitude, and in foolish disputes with my husband where I’ve seen God continue to prove faithfulness over and again.
He has forced me to see his steady hand, his provision, his intimate care, when we have endured sickness, prayed for a paycheck, buried our dead. His glory here is fully on display. It’s undeniable that we stand firm on him alone, and as a result, like Peter promises, we give Christ the praise and glory and honor he is due.
Unlike the Amazon order, the grocery pick up, the text message response, the hard things of life often demand we wait.
Things like infertility, cancer, prodigals, these don’t remedy themselves quickly; they hang around, season after season, sometimes for years. Sometimes, for a lifetime. Perhaps we get our miracle. The baby comes, the cancer goes into remission, the prodigal returns home. But even then, in the celebration, the reprieve, the return home, there are wounds left behind that take some time to heal and questions that continue to haunt us at three am and at traffic lights.
Why did you wait, Jesus?
It seems that waiting is part of it. So then, we must learn to wait well. Our God isn’t a god of what ifs. He is a God of promises. Throughout scripture, we see him deliver. Every single promise he is good on, every single prophecy fulfilled. Our waiting, our hope then, is not in vain. Even if it seems like, for some of us, we are waiting a lifetime, He remains good and He remains God.
In Isaiah, we are told that strength will rise when we wait upon the Lord. This is then what we must practice: Instead of numbing or escaping, instead of entertaining or dismissing, we bring the thing—we bring the dying brother—to Jesus himself. We do not endure alone. No, the Spirit of the living God, who dwells within us, renews our strength in this place of sacred surrender. We shall mount up on wings like eagles; run and not be weary; walk and not faint (Isaiah 40:31). It’s here, in this place, that we find our belief held firm and glory given where it is due.
And this is why we must learn to wait.
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About Anna: Anna Sutherland lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she is stay-at-home mom to Owen, Henry, and Hadley. She and her husband Nathan run the non-profit Flint & Iron, through which they develop resources to equip families to love God and use tech.
