Lost in the Waiting, Found in the Quiet

Does anyone really like waiting? I don’t think anyone really likes waiting. I know I don’t.

I’m not talking about the kind of waiting where you’re excited about something coming. Not that Christmas morning kind of waiting. Or waiting for a vacation to start, or a visit from a dear friend. I mean the kind where life just feels … paused. Like you’re sitting in a waiting room, and everyone else’s name is getting called except yours. Lately, that’s how life has felt for me. Waiting for things to change. Waiting for clarity. Waiting for the next step to show itself. And if I’m honest, waiting has never been my strength. I like forward motion. I like plans. I like the feeling that I’m headed somewhere.

But some seasons don’t move like that. Some seasons feel quieter. Slower. Uncertain. And if you’re anything like me, those seasons can make you wonder if something has gone wrong.

We hear a lot about the big moments in faith;

The miracles.

The answered prayers.

The stories where everything suddenly falls into place.

But we don’t talk as much about the long stretches in between.

The seasons where you’re praying, hoping, trying to trust … but you’re still waiting. No clear answers. No big revelations. Just another day waking up and choosing to believe God is still working even if you can’t see how yet. Those are the moments that stretch your faith in ways the easy seasons never could.

Some days I sit quietly and watch the deer that wander through our yard. They show up without much warning. One minute the woods are still and the next minute there they are – stepping carefully through the trees into the opening of our driveway. Two of them come by pretty regularly. I’ve started calling them Maple and Clover. They move slowly, always aware of their surroundings. Sometimes they pause and just stand there, completely still, listening.

When life feels loud and uncertain, there’s something strangely peaceful about watching them. They aren’t rushing. They aren’t worried about what tomorrow will bring. The just move gently through the space God has given them. And sometimes while I’m sitting there watching them, it feels like God is quietly reminding me to slow down too.

One thing I’ve noticed when I read the Bible is how often God uses deserts. Not gardens. Deserts. Moses spent years in the wilderness before God called him to lead. The Israelites wandered the desert before reaching the promised land. Even Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness before beginning his ministry. It seems like some of the most important moments in scripture happen in places that feel empty. Quiet places. Places where people are stripped of the things they usually rely on.

And maybe that’s why God uses them. Deserts have a way of clearing away distractions. They force us to slow down. To listen. To depend on God in ways we might not otherwise. I don’t know if I would call this season of my life a desert exactly. But sometimes if feels close. Not barren. Not hopeless. Just quieter than expected.

For a long time, I thought waiting meant something had somehow gotten off track. Like life had stalled out. Like the story had paused. But lately I’ve been wondering if waiting is actually part of the story. Maybe it’s the place where God does His quietest work. The kind of work that happens deep beneath the surface where no one else can see it yet. The kind of work that prepares us for whatever comes next.

Maybe waiting is where roots grow deeper. Maybe it’s where faith becomes less about understanding everything and more about learning to trust the One who does. And maybe one day I’ll look back on this season and realize it wasn’t wasted time at all. Maybe it was the place where something new quietly began.

When I am tempted to rush ahead of whatever season God has me in, I tend to think of the deer I love to watch. They step carefully out of the woods, pausing often, listening, moving only when it’s time. There’s a quiet wisdom in that kind of pace. Maybe seasons of waiting – even the ones that feel a little like wandering through a desert – are not empty at all. Maybe they’re sacred spaces where God slows us down enough to hear Him again. And maybe, just like those quiet moments watching Clover and Maple step into the light, one day I’ll realize that even here, in this slower season, I was never really lost. I was just learning to walk with Him again.

Listen to the song that goes with this post.