Waiting Well

Waiting has a way of making us feel unproductive.

As though life is on pause. As though the real story will begin once something changes — once answers arrive, once clarity settles, once the season moves on. Waiting can feel like standing in the hallway, not yet invited into the room.

But Advent tells a different story.

Waiting is not empty time. It is inhabited time.

The people at the heart of Christmas knew this kind of waiting. Generations longing for rescue. Mary waiting with a promise growing quietly inside her. Shepherds waiting through ordinary nights that suddenly became holy.

Nothing about their waiting looked impressive.

But it was faithful.

Waiting well doesn’t mean waiting cheerfully or patiently or with unwavering confidence. It means staying open. It means resisting the urge to rush God or fill the silence with noise. It means trusting that something is forming even when we can’t see it yet.

There is a courage in that kind of waiting.

Especially when the days feel long. When hope feels thin. When the best we can do is show up again and again with the same prayer, the same questions, the same fragile yes.

Advent reminds me that God works slowly — not carelessly, but lovingly. He takes His time because what He is growing needs room. Needs tenderness. Needs trust.

So if you find yourself waiting this Christmas — for healing, for direction, for peace, for a next step — know this: waiting is not a failure of faith.

It is one of its most honest expressions.

And God is not absent in the waiting.

He is nearer than you think.