in the waiting.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve written more than I have in the last two months. I’ve had a steady flow of new words enter my mind, almost as if the door I’ve been knocking at since November has finally opened, ushering in a creative burst that’s left me feeling positively giddy over my new story. 

But here’s the thing—I’ve been praying over this book since I first started drafting it at the end of last year. I’ve asked for help with uncovering the story, understanding the characters, and figuring out what God wants me to say. This story feels different to me for a lot of reasons, but one of the biggest reasons is that for the first time since I started writing novels, I’m bringing faith into my fiction. 

This new book isn’t just about a couple of teenagers flirting and fighting and falling in love (which it most certainly is). It’s also about finding your way back to God. Ever since the idea came to me, I’ve been equal parts excited and nervous. Excited because I believe in this story with my whole heart. And nervous because faith is a tender subject—hence all the praying on my part. 

I’ve been praying for months to find forward momentum, but most weeks ended with me circling the same scenes, confused by the characters and where they were taking me. 

Mostly, it’s just been quiet. 

So if writing this book matters to me, if it’s important and worthwhile and a good thing to go after, why didn’t I receive the words earlier? Why didn’t I get this creative outpouring right when I asked for it? What was with all the radio silence when I wanted something else—something louder and bolder? Definitely something with a higher word count. 

This past month, I’ve been reading the book Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools (which I cannot recommend enough—it’s incredible), and a few days ago, I came across this line about prayer that just about knocked me over: “We come seeking gifts, and we often get them! But the greatest gift, the One we’re really after and the One we’re guaranteed to receive, is the Giver himself.” 

At first glance, it seemed as if my prayers about writing this book had fallen on deaf ears. But as I move in closer and look again, I not only see a God who’s been listening this whole time, but a God who invited me to His table and actively sat with me, preparing me for more words to come. 

He didn’t immediately give me what I was asking for. Instead, He gave me a different gift, a better gift: He gave me time with Him. 

These past few months of quiet seeking have been transformative. I may not have a high word count to prove it, but I have something else I want—a stronger relationship with myself and my Savior. 

Ultimately, prayer isn’t simply a wish list or me trying to convince my Father to give me good things. It’s time spent in His presence. It’s pulling a chair up to His table. I’ve even started visualizing the scene as I pray—Him at His chair, me in mine, and a beautiful table set before us. It’s warm and cozy and unhurried; there’s plenty of time to talk. I picture myself sitting at that table and handing Him my dreams, watching in wonder as He cherishes them even more than I do.

Are you praying over something or someone right now? Are you waiting for God to hear your voice and take action? I know there are many heavy things we pray over—things a lot heavier than writing a book. Please know that I’m praying those same heartfelt prayers right alongside you, waiting for what comes next. 

But I’m also learning that there is more in the waiting than I’ve ever realized before. That’s where the relationship is built. That’s where we meet our Maker. That’s where we learn to trust that He will fill our empty spaces with good, good things.

Maybe what we mistake as radio silence is actually the sweetest sound there is. Because if we pause and listen carefully, that’s when we’ll hear His song—His words, His character, even His very presence. 

So pull up a chair and get comfortable.

He’s there—-waiting.

For you.