The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter like a tiny white monument to disappointment. Negative. Again.
Sarah stared at her reflection in the mirror, counting the months—thirty-seven of them now—since she and Mark had started trying. Thirty-seven cycles of hope building like a crescendo, only to crash into the familiar ache of another period arriving right on schedule.
"How long, God?" she whispered to her tired eyes. "How much longer?"
The silence felt deafening. Around her, it seemed everyone else's prayers were being answered with beautiful speed. Her sister's second baby. Her coworker's surprise pregnancy. Even strangers in the grocery store pushed strollers that felt like visual reminders of what remained out of reach.
Sarah had become an expert at waiting. Waiting for ovulation. Waiting for symptoms. Waiting for that magical second line. Waiting for God to remember her name.
She'd tried everything—fertility tracking, supplements, different doctors, prayer circles. She'd surrendered it to God so many times she'd lost count, only to find herself picking up the worry again like a familiar, unwelcome friend.
This morning felt different, though. Heavier. As if the weight of three years had finally settled fully on her shoulders.
Downstairs, Mark was already gone for work, leaving behind the careful space they'd both learned to navigate around this tender subject. The kitchen felt too quiet, too ordinary for such an extraordinary ache.
Sarah poured her coffee and stood at the window, watching Mrs. Peterson next door tend her garden.
What happened next changed everything about Sarah's understanding and waiting.
The elderly woman moved slowly but purposefully, her weathered hands gentle with each plant.
Something about the scene drew Sarah outside.
"Beautiful morning," she called softly.
Mrs. Peterson looked up, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. "Oh, Sarah! Come see this."
Sarah approached the fence line, grateful for any distraction.
"This rose bush," Mrs. Peterson said, gesturing to a seemingly barren collection of brown stems. "Planted it four years ago. Hasn't bloomed once. Not a single flower."
Sarah frowned. "Are you going to replace it?"
"Replace it?" Mrs. Peterson chuckled. "Oh honey, this is just its season of preparation. Roses like this one, they spend years building their root system deep underground before they ever show you what they're capable of above ground. The waiting isn't empty time—it's growing time."
She brushed dirt from her hands. "Sometimes the most beautiful blooms come from the longest waits."
Sarah felt something shift in her chest. "But how do you know it will bloom? What if it never does?"
Mrs. Peterson's eyes grew tender. "That's where faith comes in, dear. But here's what I've learned in seventy-eight years—God's timing isn't our timing, but it's always perfect timing. The waiting seasons, they're not punishment. They're preparation."
Standing there by the fence, Sarah felt a presence she hadn't noticed in months of frantic prayers and desperate bargaining with God. Not the loud, dramatic presence she'd been expecting, but something quieter. Steadier.
I see you, the gentle whisper came. I haven't forgotten.
For the first time in thirty-seven months, Sarah wasn't asking God to change her timeline. Instead, she found herself asking, "What are you preparing in me while I wait?"
The answer came not in words but in a deep, settling peace that felt like coming home.
That evening, Sarah found herself in a conversation with God that felt completely different from her previous prayers. Instead of presenting her case for why now was the right time, she found herself listening.
This waiting season isn't empty, she sensed God saying. I'm deepening your capacity for love, your trust in My goodness, your ability to hold hope without desperation.
Sarah realized she'd been so focused on the destination that she'd missed the transformation happening in the journey itself. The woman she was becoming in this waiting—more patient, more trusting, more aware of God's presence in ordinary moments—was part of the gift too.
Three months later, Sarah discovered she was pregnant. But by then, something had already changed. The deep peace she'd found during the waiting remained. She'd learned that God's presence wasn't dependent on getting what she wanted when she wanted it.
The waiting had taught her that God was enough, even when her dreams were still dreams. And that lesson, she knew, would carry her through whatever seasons lay ahead.
Sometimes the most beautiful blooms come from the longest waits. What if your waiting season isn't empty time—but growing time?"
Journal Prompt: What waiting season are you currently in? Write about how this season might be preparing and growing you, even if you can't see the purpose yet.
Action Step: This week, when you feel impatient about something you're waiting for, pause and ask God: "What are you preparing in me during this wait?"
Scripture & Truth (WEB): "Wait for the Lord. Be strong, and let your heart take courage. Yes, wait for the Lord." - Psalm 27:14 WEB
Prayer: "Lord, the waiting is so hard. Help me trust that You haven't forgotten me and that You're working even when I can't see it. Transform my heart during this season and help me find You in the waiting. Amen."
Connect & Share: Share this story with someone who needs hope in their waiting season.
Comment: What waiting season taught you the most about God's faithfulness? I'd love to hear your story in the comments below.
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