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WAITING ROOMS

 


The hardest part about waiting isn’t the outcome. It’s the chairs.
Those vinyl torture devices that squeak when you breathe too hard—bolted to the floor like you might flee mid-diagnosis. Every waiting room has them. Along with the beige walls that whisper, “We gave up decorating in 1987,” and the clock that ticks louder than your anxiety.

And the plants—oh, the plants. Those fake ferns that have seen more heartbreak than most therapists. They’ve been thriving in their own plastic way since Reagan was president. Honestly, good for them.

Hospitals. Courtrooms. ERs. Dentist offices that play smooth jazz as if that’s going to calm anyone. They all smell like the same cocktail of bleach and fear. Mostly fear.

You try to look normal. You pretend to read a six-year-old People Magazine like you deeply care who wore it best in 2014. You sip the free coffee that tastes like burnt pencil shavings. You scroll your phone, checking for messages you don’t even want to read. Mostly, you just… wait.

You wait for your name. For news. For relief. For someone to walk through the door and hand you back your peace like, “Oops, you dropped this.”

But here’s the secret nobody tells you: waiting rooms aren’t really about waiting. They’re about surrender.
You can’t rush a doctor. Or a verdict. Or God. Trust me—I’ve tried. I’ve prayed the “let’s move this along” prayer more times than I can count.
And every time, Heaven’s reply is the same calm silence, like, Sweet child… have you met patience?

So you sit. You bounce your leg. You plan your entire future and funeral in the same ten minutes. You stare at the door like it owes you an apology.
And just when you think time has stopped—when you’re sure you’ll live here forever among the ferns and fluorescent lights—something happens.

The door opens.
Sometimes it’s good news. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s just a nurse saying your name wrong. But it’s always enough—a crack in the beige. A reminder that waiting isn’t forever.

Because hope is sneaky like that.
It can slip under locked doors and hum under bad lighting.

Waiting feels like dying by a thousand squeaky-chair shifts.
But maybe waiting is just love’s way of saying, “Stay right here. Something sacred is happening — even if you can’t see it yet.”


“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.”
— Psalm 37:7

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