“Patience is a virtue.”
“Not one of mine,” I shot back to my friend recently.
Honestly, that’s probably the most accurate way to sum up my relationship with patience. It’s supposed to be noble and character-building and all that… but does anyone actually enjoy it?
If you’re someone who likes your Amazon packages fast and your prayers answered faster, then you get it. I’m all about clarity, momentum and moving forward. So back in February, when I quit my job, I expected a seamless glow-up: send the applications, say a few earnest prayers, and boom—new opportunity unlocked. Cue the inspirational montage.
But, plot twist: nothing happened. Or at least, not on my schedule.
Jesus must have a wild sense of humor because that’s exactly when He decided to school me on trust. Not the Instagrammable, coffee-cup kind of trust—but the hard, uncomfortable, wait-for-months-with-no-updates kind. The kind where “God’s timing” stops sounding poetic and starts feeling personal.
At first, I didn’t hate it. I romanticized the whole thing—spending my days at coffee shops, reconnecting with friends, breathing deeply like some kind of self-care influencer. “The job will come,” I thought, sipping my lavender latte.
But the job didn’t come. And the peace started unraveling.
What began as a restful sabbatical started to feel like a cosmic holding pattern. Weeks turned into months. My inbox stayed quiet. I was applying, networking, doing all the “right” things—plus praying, journaling, and yes, even fasting. Still: nothing. It felt like God ghosted me. The ache of waiting wasn’t just annoying; it was loud. Like spiritual growing pains with no Tylenol in sight.
And in the middle of that discomfort, something weird happened. I changed.
I wasn’t (as) annoyed when the person in front of me at Starbucks took forever to order their oat milk triple shot cold brew. I wasn’t speed-walking through crosswalks like I was in some Olympic pedestrian event. Slowly, patience started sneaking into my life—not as a punishment, but as a tool. A muscle. One I didn’t know I was working on.
Turns out, patience isn’t about faking calm until your next breakthrough. Sometimes it’s about learning to exist in the in-between without unraveling. Which is a miracle for someone like me, who once considered “waiting” a personal attack.
Then, just as I thought I’d “passed the test,” the job I finally got turned out to be temporary. A detour, not a destination. Cool cool cool. Back to square one. Thanks for the lesson, God. Can I clock out now?
Apparently not.
But here’s the thing: I’m not spiraling like I did the first time. I’m still waiting—but I’m waiting differently. Not because I’ve cracked some spiritual code, but because I’ve started to believe this might be less about arrival and more about formation. Waiting is doing something in me. Something slow, steady, maybe even holy.
And if you zoom out, the whole Christian life is kind of one big waiting room. We’re all waiting—for healing, for purpose, for clarity. But ultimately? We’re waiting for Jesus to come back and make all things new. It’s not just about job offers and wedding dates and answered prayers. We’re waiting for justice. For restoration. For redemption.
And if that’s the big picture, then maybe our smaller waits aren’t just pointless detours. Maybe they’re training ground.
So yeah, waiting still sucks. It’s frustrating and often deeply un-fun. But I’m learning that it can also be refining. That it exposes our illusions of control and slowly, stubbornly teaches us to let go.
I used to think patience was a passive thing—like being stuck in traffic with nothing to do. But now I think it’s active. It’s a weapon. It can break you down or build you up. And weirdly, I think it’s building me.
God’s timing rarely looks like mine. But I’m starting to believe it’s better. And as I sit in this space between “no longer” and “not yet,” I’m clinging to the hope that He’s doing more in the waiting than I can see.
So if you’re stuck in a season that feels like it will never end, you’re not alone. And you’re not off track. Waiting doesn’t mean you’re lost—it might just mean you’re being shaped.
And if patience can get through to me? Trust me, there’s hope for all of us.
