Living Inside the Waiting

I am living through a season of waiting. Waiting for pathology reports after surgery for breast cancer. Waiting for words that will shape what comes next.

As I sit with this waiting, familiar Christian tropes occasionally come to mind. “God only gives us what we can handle.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “God is testing you.” And perhaps the most jarring, “You’re strong because God chose you for this.”

I understand the impulse behind these words. They are attempts to make sense of suffering, to give it shape, to soften its sharp edges. They are almost always spoken with kindness and offered as comfort or solace. And yet they move too quickly toward meaning, toward resolution, toward tidy conclusions. This moment is not tidy. And these sayings rely on a different conception of God than the one I hold to.

The God I believe in does not cause suffering or test faith through fear. Nor do I believe in a God arranging outcomes from a distance. I believe in Divine Mystery, not cosmic controller. The closest I can come to imagining God is as Spirit, woven into everything that is. God moving in and through my breath, fear, courage, and unknowing.

I see now how deeply this season of waiting is shaped by time. Human time is linear and restless, always leaning forward, always asking what comes next. I measure it in reports and results, appointments and next steps. But Divine Mystery does not live inside clocks or calendars.

In God’s time, there is no delay. No ahead or behind. No wasted season. I experience time as a human construct, but in the life of God, everything is held at once. Nothing is being withheld. Nothing is being tested. Nothing is being planned as punishment or reward.

Waiting then is not a failure of faith. It is an invitation. An invitation to notice a deeper rhythm than my own urgency. As I wait, Divine Mystery is not deciding whether I can handle what comes. Divine Mystery is present as breath when anxiety tightens my chest, and in the steadiness that carries me through long afternoons. Divine Mystery arrives most apparently through the kindness of others. But also in moments of unexpected calm, nourishing meals, or an engaging Netflix series.

This waiting is not empty. It is inhabited. It is a place where I am learning to loosen my grip on explanations and rest instead in presence. I am not waiting for God to arrive. I am already accompanied, held in a fullness I cannot see, but am slowly learning to trust.