Finding Hope in the Waiting
We've all been there—standing in the middle of a holiday gathering, smile plastered on our face, while something deep inside feels broken. The decorations are up, the music is playing, and everyone expects us to be cheerful. But beneath the surface, there's a question we're afraid to voice: How long, Lord?
The Ache of Delayed Hope
There's a particular kind of weariness that doesn't announce itself loudly. It's the quiet ache of waiting—waiting for God to do something, to bring relief, to restore what feels irreparably broken. This isn't always the result of dramatic crisis. Sometimes it's the accumulation of smaller disappointments: strained relationships, financial pressure, health concerns that linger, or simply the exhausting gap between where we are spiritually and where we long to be.
This ache has a name: delayed hope.
For some, it's the grief of loss. For others, it's the frustration of prayers that seem to bounce off the ceiling. For many, it's the soul-deep exhaustion of holding everything together while feeling like we're falling apart on the inside. We counsel ourselves through anxious thoughts, we push through with determination, but the weariness doesn't lift. The ache doesn't disappear just because we show up to church or sing the right songs.
When David Couldn't Stay Silent
King David—a man after God's own heart, a warrior, a worshiper, a leader—knew this ache intimately. In Psalm 13, he gives voice to what many of us feel but don't know how to express:
*"How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?"*
Four times David asks, "How long?" In Hebrew understanding, the number four represents completeness, totality. David is completely engulfed in this question. Every corner of his soul is crying out.
Notice what David doesn't do. He doesn't paste on a smile and pretend everything is fine. He doesn't silence his pain because he thinks faithful people shouldn't struggle. He doesn't hide behind busyness or religious activity. Instead, he does something that might surprise us: he protests to God.
The Gift of Lament
Many of us have been taught—either explicitly or implicitly—that complaining to God is somehow unfaithful. We think we should "buck up" and handle our struggles with stoic silence. We worry that expressing our pain is whining, that it demonstrates weak faith or spiritual immaturity.
But Scripture tells a different story.
Lament is not rebellion—it's relationship. It's not doubt—it's dialogue. When David cries out "How long?" he's not shouting into an empty canyon, waiting for his words to echo back meaninglessly. He's speaking into a covenant relationship with a God who listens, who cares, who responds.
First Peter 5:7 invites us to "give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you." All of them. Not just the acceptable ones. Not just the ones that sound spiritual enough. All of them.
God can only heal what we're willing to reveal.
The Pattern of Lament
Psalm 13 follows a three-part structure that offers us a holy way through our weariness:
First, there's protest. David is brutally honest: "God, this hurts. I feel forgotten. I feel like you're hiding your face from me. I'm exhausted from wrestling with my own thoughts. I can't even trust my own counsel anymore."
Second, there's petition. David moves from expressing his pain to making a request: "Turn and answer me, O Lord my God! Restore the sparkle to my eyes, or I will die."
What a beautiful, audacious phrase: "Restore the sparkle to my eyes." The Hebrew literally means "light up my eyes." David is asking God to bring his soul back to life, to restore hope, vitality, clarity, emotional energy. He's not asking for circumstances to change necessarily—he's asking for his perspective to be transformed.
Third, there's praise. This is where something remarkable happens. David's circumstances haven't changed. Nothing external has shifted. But his perspective has been transformed through the process of lament: "But I trust in your unfailing love. I will rejoice because you have rescued me. I will sing to the Lord because he is good to me."
Mirrors and Windows
When we're weary, we tend to stare at mirrors—reflections that show us only our pain, our tiredness, our limitations. The mirror shows us what *is*: the sorrow in our eyes, the weight on our shoulders, the circumstances that haven't changed.
But lament invites us to walk away from the mirror and look through a window instead. Windows offer perspective. They show us not just what is, but *who we are with*. Through the window of faith, we see a God who is near, who welcomes our honest cries, who doesn't flinch when we shout "How long?"
The Hebrew word chesed—translated as "unfailing love"—means loyal hope, never-stopping, never-giving-up love. This is what David trusts in. Not optimism. Not positive thinking. But covenant-confident hope in a God who has been faithful before and will be faithful again.
Worship in the Ache
Lament is worship in the dark. It's praising God not because everything is perfect, but because He is good even when life isn't. It's reaching out in the midst of our feelings, allowing our souls to be led back to God through struggle rather than despite it.
This is truly heartfelt worship—the kind that comes from a place of desperate need rather than comfortable abundance.
Isaiah 65:24 offers this stunning promise: "Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear." God doesn't wait for us to get our act together before He responds. He's already moving toward us in our mess.
After the Storm
After a violent thunderstorm, morning often arrives with surprising beauty. The air feels cleaner, cooler, somehow renewed. Everything seems strangely fresh. This happens because we know a fundamental truth: storms don't last forever.
The storm is real. The ache is real. The "how long, Lord?" is achingly, exhaustingly real. But so is the sunrise.
Lamentations 3:22-23 reminds us: "The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning."
And Psalm 30:5 offers this hope: "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning."
Your Own Lament
Perhaps you need to create your own lament today. Following David's pattern, consider these questions:
Don't edit yourself. Don't make it sound more spiritual than it is. Just be honest. God welcomes it. He's big enough to handle your protest, your petition, and ultimately, He'll lead you to praise—not because circumstances have changed, but because your perspective will be transformed by His presence.
The weeping may last through the night. But joy—surprising, soul-restoring joy—comes in the morning.
The Ache of Delayed Hope
There's a particular kind of weariness that doesn't announce itself loudly. It's the quiet ache of waiting—waiting for God to do something, to bring relief, to restore what feels irreparably broken. This isn't always the result of dramatic crisis. Sometimes it's the accumulation of smaller disappointments: strained relationships, financial pressure, health concerns that linger, or simply the exhausting gap between where we are spiritually and where we long to be.
This ache has a name: delayed hope.
For some, it's the grief of loss. For others, it's the frustration of prayers that seem to bounce off the ceiling. For many, it's the soul-deep exhaustion of holding everything together while feeling like we're falling apart on the inside. We counsel ourselves through anxious thoughts, we push through with determination, but the weariness doesn't lift. The ache doesn't disappear just because we show up to church or sing the right songs.
When David Couldn't Stay Silent
King David—a man after God's own heart, a warrior, a worshiper, a leader—knew this ache intimately. In Psalm 13, he gives voice to what many of us feel but don't know how to express:
*"How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?"*
Four times David asks, "How long?" In Hebrew understanding, the number four represents completeness, totality. David is completely engulfed in this question. Every corner of his soul is crying out.
Notice what David doesn't do. He doesn't paste on a smile and pretend everything is fine. He doesn't silence his pain because he thinks faithful people shouldn't struggle. He doesn't hide behind busyness or religious activity. Instead, he does something that might surprise us: he protests to God.
The Gift of Lament
Many of us have been taught—either explicitly or implicitly—that complaining to God is somehow unfaithful. We think we should "buck up" and handle our struggles with stoic silence. We worry that expressing our pain is whining, that it demonstrates weak faith or spiritual immaturity.
But Scripture tells a different story.
Lament is not rebellion—it's relationship. It's not doubt—it's dialogue. When David cries out "How long?" he's not shouting into an empty canyon, waiting for his words to echo back meaninglessly. He's speaking into a covenant relationship with a God who listens, who cares, who responds.
First Peter 5:7 invites us to "give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you." All of them. Not just the acceptable ones. Not just the ones that sound spiritual enough. All of them.
God can only heal what we're willing to reveal.
The Pattern of Lament
Psalm 13 follows a three-part structure that offers us a holy way through our weariness:
First, there's protest. David is brutally honest: "God, this hurts. I feel forgotten. I feel like you're hiding your face from me. I'm exhausted from wrestling with my own thoughts. I can't even trust my own counsel anymore."
Second, there's petition. David moves from expressing his pain to making a request: "Turn and answer me, O Lord my God! Restore the sparkle to my eyes, or I will die."
What a beautiful, audacious phrase: "Restore the sparkle to my eyes." The Hebrew literally means "light up my eyes." David is asking God to bring his soul back to life, to restore hope, vitality, clarity, emotional energy. He's not asking for circumstances to change necessarily—he's asking for his perspective to be transformed.
Third, there's praise. This is where something remarkable happens. David's circumstances haven't changed. Nothing external has shifted. But his perspective has been transformed through the process of lament: "But I trust in your unfailing love. I will rejoice because you have rescued me. I will sing to the Lord because he is good to me."
Mirrors and Windows
When we're weary, we tend to stare at mirrors—reflections that show us only our pain, our tiredness, our limitations. The mirror shows us what *is*: the sorrow in our eyes, the weight on our shoulders, the circumstances that haven't changed.
But lament invites us to walk away from the mirror and look through a window instead. Windows offer perspective. They show us not just what is, but *who we are with*. Through the window of faith, we see a God who is near, who welcomes our honest cries, who doesn't flinch when we shout "How long?"
The Hebrew word chesed—translated as "unfailing love"—means loyal hope, never-stopping, never-giving-up love. This is what David trusts in. Not optimism. Not positive thinking. But covenant-confident hope in a God who has been faithful before and will be faithful again.
Worship in the Ache
Lament is worship in the dark. It's praising God not because everything is perfect, but because He is good even when life isn't. It's reaching out in the midst of our feelings, allowing our souls to be led back to God through struggle rather than despite it.
This is truly heartfelt worship—the kind that comes from a place of desperate need rather than comfortable abundance.
Isaiah 65:24 offers this stunning promise: "Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear." God doesn't wait for us to get our act together before He responds. He's already moving toward us in our mess.
After the Storm
After a violent thunderstorm, morning often arrives with surprising beauty. The air feels cleaner, cooler, somehow renewed. Everything seems strangely fresh. This happens because we know a fundamental truth: storms don't last forever.
The storm is real. The ache is real. The "how long, Lord?" is achingly, exhaustingly real. But so is the sunrise.
Lamentations 3:22-23 reminds us: "The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning."
And Psalm 30:5 offers this hope: "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning."
Your Own Lament
Perhaps you need to create your own lament today. Following David's pattern, consider these questions:
- What hurts right now?
- What are you waiting for?
- What are you afraid of?
- What don't you understand?
- What feels heavy?
- What feels delayed?
- What do you need God to restore?
Don't edit yourself. Don't make it sound more spiritual than it is. Just be honest. God welcomes it. He's big enough to handle your protest, your petition, and ultimately, He'll lead you to praise—not because circumstances have changed, but because your perspective will be transformed by His presence.
The weeping may last through the night. But joy—surprising, soul-restoring joy—comes in the morning.
Posted in Home for the Holidays