God never hurries

I am learning that God never hurries, even when my heart does.

I rush because grief makes everything feel urgent.

Because loss convinces me that time is slipping through my fingers like sand I cannot hold.

Because unanswered prayers feel like alarms going off inside my chest, demanding resolution, relief, rescue, now.

But You are not frantic, Lord.

You are not pacing heaven’s floors, checking clocks, scrambling to meet some invisible deadline.

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are not pressured by my panic.

And this truth both comforts me and confronts me.

Because if You are not rushing, then perhaps my desperation to force healing, to hurry closure, to speed past the ache—is not faith at all, but fear.

Fear that if something doesn’t change soon, it never will.

Fear that silence means neglect.

Fear that waiting is the same as being forgotten.

But You wait without anxiety.

You work without urgency.

You move with intention, not impulse.

And somehow, impossibly, You are never idle while appearing still.

I confess—my nerves are tight with questions.

My spirit trembles with when and why and how long.

I am weary from watching calendars turn while my heart remains in the same tender place.

I am tired of measuring progress by pain levels and disappointment.

And yet…

just knowing that You are unhurried begins to loosen something knotted inside me.

If You are not racing the clock, then my tears are not inconveniences.

If You are not bound by timelines, then my healing is not overdue.

If You are eternal, then this moment—this ache, this waiting, this slow becoming—is not wasted.

You are not asking me to outrun grief.

You are asking me to abide with You inside it.

So I breathe.

Not because everything feels better, but because everything feels held.

Held by a God who is never rushed, never frantic, never surprised by the length of the valley.

Teach me to rest in Your pace.

To trust that slowness is not abandonment.

To believe that what feels delayed to me is deliberate to You.

Quiet my spirit, Lord.

Relax this trembling heart.

Remind me that time does not govern You—and therefore it does not have the final word over me.

You are working.

You are present.

And You are never in a hurry.

And somehow… that is enough to keep me breathing today.