There’s a kind of waiting that doesn’t sit still—it prays.
It hopes. It aches. It trusts.
Some days, the waiting is quiet. Peaceful, even.
Other days, it stings. I start to wonder if something’s wrong with me.
If I’m doing something wrong.
If I’m praying the wrong way, or not enough.
If maybe—just maybe—I’m hoping too much.
But somehow, I’ve never felt more held.
God is here in the waiting.
He’s in the stillness, the not-yet.
In the way my husband reaches for my hand when we pray.
In the quiet songs we fill our home.
In the peace that makes no sense, and yet keeps showing up.
And honestly… I haven’t even cried much.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
Not because I don’t feel it.
But because deep in our hearts, we believe God will answer.
Like He answered Hannah, who wept before the Lord until Samuel came.
Like Sarah, who laughed—and then held the promise in her arms.
Like Rebekah, who waited years before her twins, Jacob and Esau, were born.
Like Rachel, who longed for Joseph.
Like the mother of Samson, who was visited by an angel.
Like Elizabeth, who carried John the Baptist after what felt like a lifetime.
Each of their children had a purpose.
Each story began with waiting.
My husband always tells me:
“Our baby will be special too.”
And I believe that with all my heart.
Because this wait isn’t wasted.
It’s stretching our faith.
It’s softening our hearts.
It’s teaching us to love deeper, pray longer, sing louder, and trust harder.
We sing Psalm 128 like it’s written just for us.
Because in many ways, it is.
It’s our song of blessing. Our promise in the silence.
Four years of hoping, praying, longing
For the child we already love.
For the miracle we know God will give, in His perfect time.
He hasn’t said no.
He’s just said not yet.
And somehow, that’s enough for now.
Waiting in faith doesn’t always come with tears.
Sometimes, it comes with peace that makes no sense.
