Faith in the Waiting

There’s a kind of silence that settles over you in the deepest kinds of waiting. Not the peaceful kind—but the heavy, aching kind. The kind that hums with fear. The kind where every second stretches long and tight with the question, What if this is it? What if nothing gets better from here?

Luke’s eyes opened thirteen days after the coma began. While I felt so much hope, relief, and gratitude, we still had so many questions. Because while his eyes were open, there was nothing behind them. No recognition. No movement. No sign that he was still him.

Yet.

When Hope Feels Risky

For 48 hours, we waited.

We watched for the slightest flicker. A glance. A shift. Anything. We begged heaven in whispers and tears and silence to just give us one sign that he was still there. Still reachable. Still coming back.

That waiting was the hardest kind—because it held the possibility of the worst.

Before all of this, I wasn’t sure I believed that God answered prayers at all. I had seen pain. I had watched faithful people suffer. I had said prayers before, and nothing had changed. So I learned to protect my heart by not expecting too much. I believed in God, but I didn’t really believe He moved—not in the deeply personal, reach-into-my-life kind of way.

But then came the moment when I had nothing left but prayer.

I found myself at Luke’s bedside, whispering, “Please, God. Please.” Over and over again. Not polished prayers. Not theological ones. Just raw pleading from a mother’s heart. And somewhere in that desperation, something shifted.

From Pleading to Presence

At first, I prayed for the miracle. For Luke to wake up. For him to come back to us. But as the hours passed, and there was still no sign of recognition, my prayers changed.

I started asking God not to fix it—but just to be near.

To hold me when I couldn’t stop shaking.
To steady me when the fear was too loud.
To help me breathe when the room felt too small.
To sit in the not-knowing with me.

And He did.

One night, Luke’s eyes were open, but he still wasn’t responding—except to pain. His vitals were surging at terrifying levels, and I was afraid he’d go into cardiac arrest. Or that the pneumonia would win. The room was dark and cold, and I sat there rocking slowly, trying to quiet the panic rising in my chest. I didn’t want him to hear me break, so I took his black and grey flannel shirt—the one I wore every day for months—and screamed into it. Silently. A deep, guttural cry that came from the bottom of my soul.

And that’s when it happened.

This peace—this impossible, undeserved calm—washed over my body like I had never felt before. It didn’t make sense. Nothing had changed in the room. His vitals were still too high. The fear was still real. But suddenly, I wasn’t alone in it anymore.

And that was enough.

In the Waiting

Maybe you’re in a season of waiting, too. Waiting for answers. Waiting for healing. Waiting for clarity or relief or peace to finally come. Maybe you're stuck in the same questions I whispered in the dark—What if this is it? What if nothing gets better?

I don’t have easy answers. I still carry questions of my own. But I can tell you this: something holy happens in the waiting.

It’s where our faith stops being something we talk about and becomes something we live. It’s where the prayers turn raw and honest. It’s where we realize we don’t need a perfect outcome to be perfectly held.

You don’t have to feel strong to have faith.
You don’t have to understand the ending to trust in the presence of something greater along the way.
You don’t have to pretend it’s okay.

You just have to breathe.
To stay.
To whisper your own version of “Please, God. Please.”
And trust that even now, even here—you’re not alone.

I wouldn’t have chosen the waiting. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I can’t deny what it gave me. It stripped everything down to the core—and that’s where I found faith. Not in what I could see, or predict, or control. But in the nearness of a presence that didn’t leave when things got unbearable.

You’re Not Alone

If you’re in the waiting, you don’t have to do anything extraordinary. Just keep showing up. Keep breathing. Keep holding on to the smallest thread of trust, even if it’s frayed. That’s still faith.

Is there a place in your life where you're still waiting—and what would it look like to invite peace into that space today?

If these words met you in a quiet place today, I hope you carry them with you. And if you’re still waiting—still holding your breath for what comes next—you’re not alone. Not even for a moment.

Keep shining,