I wait for the Lord…my whole being waits…”
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you.
Shakespeare, Sonnet 57
The next time God closes a door, don’t look for a window. Maybe we should just find a couch and sit for awhile.
I am in a season of waiting.
I have an expectancy in this hour that God will come through for me where I most need Him to. Hope is what I am clinging to; not run-of-the-mill, common wishful thinking, but the way Paul uses it in the NT. And Peter. A settled, bankable confidence.
I fully expect to blog someday about how God came to my rescue, and that He did it in a magical, unexpected, and exceptional way. I’ve even given Him room to answer my cry way outside the lines of my asking.
He’s done it before. Lots of times. And He’ll do it again.
There’s poetry in waiting.
The word sounds like its a bad thing, but I’ve learned a thing or two about this…activity. Yes, I chose my word very carefully.
Waiting is not idleness. It is anything but passive or being in retreat. Waiting is not static. Waiting on God is the season in which our inner man advances. We’ve learned that our children do their growing while they sleep. So it is with God’s child. We do our most and best growing in our restful seasons of waiting on God.
Tell me your waiting story.