My dislike for them started in the last years of my dad’s life, when I spent countless hours in them. The walls were bland, the air heavy, and time seemed to stand still. Outside, the world kept moving, indifferent to the uncertainty and discomfort pressing in on me. Even when I was surrounded by family and friends, I felt alone. Left with my thoughts, I faced the weight of not knowing what would come next.

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Last night, I was reminded that waiting rooms aren’t always made of chairs, magazines, and fluorescent lights. Sometimes, they’re not physical places at all. Waiting rooms can be seasons of life, those stretches of time when we’re waiting for answers, for change, or for things to get better.

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These moments are often lonely, filled with a strange mix of hope and anxiety. They test our patience and stretch our faith. And here I am again… back in the waiting room.

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Over the years, I’ve learned that waiting is an inevitable part of the journey. It shapes us. It slows us down long enough to gather our thoughts, reassess our priorities, and build the resilience we’ll need for what’s ahead. Sometimes the waiting feels endless. But I’ve also found that in these pauses, I discover deeper understanding, quiet strength, and the kind of faith that can’t be rushed.

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When I was just 12, Dr. Murphy Hunt taught me the power of waiting it out. And in my waiting seasons, I still hear his voice reminding me of the promise in Isaiah 40:31: “But they who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

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So here I am, waiting it out. Not because it’s easy, but because I believe that in the waiting, I’m being renewed.