A Letter to Those Who Wait

“From the end of the earth I will cry to you, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” (Ps. 61:2 NKJV)

I see you there, waiting, with expectation and a touch of dread. I see every time you’ve hoped, and every time that hope has been dashed.

I’ve observed the way you grieve over unfulfilled desires. I’ve watched the way you beat yourself up because you desperately want happiness, you want to be grateful for the blessings you do have. But your heart carries a hole, and hidden there is the grief of what may never be.

You might be the understated beauty I just passed on the sidewalk, whose eyes reflect the pain of the love that feels like it will never come. Each winter filled with the glint of engagement rings feels like a slow torture. And as more and more invitations to summer weddings pour in, you feel as though yours will never happen.

Or maybe you’re the tender heart who can’t look at social media as each and every person you know shares news of their growing families. You wonder if and when it will ever happen for you. Your own body seems to betray you monthly. You want with all your being to celebrate the gift of life your dear ones have been blessed with, but sometimes the grief and the longing feel so thick it seems you might get stuck there.

I wonder if you’re the lovely who’s home all day with the curious, vibrant, sticky, amazing, nerve-wracking children. When you’re up in the middle of the night, you consider whether what you do matters. That degree you’re still paying for—was it worth it?  The precious knees you kiss and the tears you wipe and the love you give–you ponder whether they will ever leave time for the desire to write or paint or travel.

Or maybe, just maybe, you’re none of these, but you still feel the deep ache of longing. You don’t belong in any one category; you’re just familiar with the cavern of a life that isn’t as it should be, or at least doesn’t look the way you hoped it would.

I see you, each of you, as you bravely walk the road of longing. I lean in the direction of knowing our aches are not meant to torture us, although at times it does feel that way.

Dear ones, know this:

Your longings are no accident.

And while I have no simple fix for your desires, I can tell you it’s okay to honor the ache and to lean into it; to know with confidence that our Maker planted those wants in us and they matter.

I, too, know longing.

I know the yearnings for love and family and expectations unfulfilled. I know the emptiness of disappointment and the grief, the overwhelming grief, of hope deferred. I know what it is to plead with God and to find that He is faithful, even there in the midst of my aches.

 We can join together on this road because in a way, we’re all waiting, aren’t we?

Waiting for the One who will make things right, the One who will wipe our tears and fill our hearts.

 I wonder what it will look like for each of us, when we know—really know—the culmination of the hopes He authored.

Dear ones, I don’t know how this will happen for each of you. But I know this: it’s coming.

[Tweet “The God of the universe sees you, and He can be trusted with your heart.”] May you courageously cling to the only real joy giver, the true source of healing to your hope deferred.

Aundi Kolber loves Jesus, people, and stories. She has a goofy sense of humor, but may start a deep conversation within five minutes of meeting you. She is a professional counselor in Colorado. Her hope is to use her voice to talk about hard and beautiful things. Aundi blogs at bravelyimperfect.com.