Apparently, God Doesn’t Have Prime

I have discovered something deeply unfortunate about myself:

I am a horrible waiter.

Not restaurant waiter. I could probably carry a tray if absolutely necessary.

I mean waiting.

I hate it.

I have built an entire lifestyle around avoiding it.

Amazon? Same day, please. If it says it will arrive next Thursday, suddenly I’m reconsidering whether I ever needed it. DoorDash? I am watching the little car on the map like I personally dispatched the driver.

“Why have you been sitting at that light for four minutes, Marcus?”

“Are you lost?”

“Do we need to involve authorities?”

I like instant gratification.

Instant answers.
Instant results.
Instant relief.
Instant clarity.

Which makes following a God who regularly says, “Wait,” feel a little disrespectful.

Especially because I know He can do it now.

That is the part that gets me.

Waiting would probably be easier if I thought God was struggling.

If heaven sent me a notification saying, “We are experiencing higher-than-normal prayer volume. Your request is important to us,” I might be more understanding.

Except God is not overwhelmed.

He is not understaffed.

He did not overlook my request.

He can.

He just hasn’t.

And John 11 is particularly offensive when I am already irritated about that.

Lazarus is sick, and Mary and Martha send word to Jesus:

“Lord, behold, he whom You love is sick.” (John 11:3, NASB)

That wording matters to me.

They did not just tell Jesus Lazarus was sick.

They reminded Him of the relationship.

The one You love.

Translation, according to me:

Jesus, this is somebody You LOVE.

Move.

Quickly.

Because this is exactly how I approach God.

“Lord…it’s me.”

Your girl.

Your daughter.

Your favorite.

Yes, I legitimately think I am God’s favorite.

I know. Theologically, there are billions of us. I understand how Christianity works.

Emotionally?

That is my Daddy and I am the favorite child.

John referred to himself as “the disciple whom Jesus loved,” so apparently I am not the first person in Scripture to have this energy.

The problem comes when being loved by God starts making me believe I should receive special treatment from God.

If You love me, come quickly.

If You love me, stop this.

If You love me, fix it.

If You love me, don’t let them hurt me.

If You love me, Lazarus doesn’t die.

Except Jesus loved Lazarus.

And Lazarus still died.

That cuts me differently because I have spent a lot of my life trying to reconcile the love of God with the things He allowed.

My dad died.

I was angry.

My mom died.

I was confused.

I was abused.

I started doubting.

Church hurt me.

I became certain.

Certain that this could not possibly be love.

Because somewhere along the way, I decided love should prevent pain.

If God loved me, certain things should never have happened to me.

If God loved me, He should have intervened sooner.

If God loved me, He should have come when I called.

Then I read John 11:5-6 and God ruins my entire argument.

“Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So when He heard that he was sick, He then stayed two days longer in the place where He was.”

So.

That tiny word messed me up.

Jesus loved them.

So He waited.

Not “Jesus loved them, but He waited.”

He loved them, so He waited.

Excuse me?

That means the delay was not evidence of absent love.

Somehow, the delay was operating inside of it.

And maybe I have spent years judging God’s intentions by His timing.

Pain became evidence.

Delay became evidence.

Silence became evidence.

Loss became evidence.

I looked at what happened to me and decided what it meant about Him.

Except pain can tell me what happened.

Pain cannot always tell me why.

And John 11:4 gives away the motive before Lazarus ever walks out of the tomb:

“This sickness is not to end in death, but for the glory of God.”

There it is.

Glory.

His.

Not mine.

Which brought me to another uncomfortable question:

Whose name do I actually want to be great?

Because sometimes I say I want God to get the glory, but what I really mean is I would like God to get the glory while making me look fabulous standing next to it.

I want the assignment and the applause.

The purpose and the recognition.

The opportunity and the significance.

Jesus and the right-hand seat.

Mixed motives.

And apparently this is where The Little Mermaid entered my devotional and personally attacked me.

Because I understand Ariel.

Ariel wanted something.

Bad.

She had been thinking about it for a while. Collecting things. Studying another world. Imagining another life. Singing about it.

The girl essentially had a vision board in a cave.

Her desire itself was not necessarily the problem.

The problem was what happened when the desire became urgent.

Enter Ursula.

Because Ursula did not create Ariel’s desire.

She exploited it.

Whew.

Ursula could offer Ariel a shortcut because Ariel had already decided she was tired of waiting.

And I had to sit with that.

Because sometimes the most dangerous thing about wanting something badly is not that what I want is bad.

It is that impatience can make a bad route look reasonable.

Suddenly I start negotiating things I normally would never negotiate.

Convictions get quieter.

Discernment gets fuzzy.

Red flags start looking mauve.

I start calling shortcuts “opportunities.”

And before long, I am spiritually standing in Ursula’s lair about to sign something because somebody promised three-day shipping on something God put in due season.

Girl.

GET OUT OF THERE.

Ariel wanted legs.

Ursula wanted her voice.

And that forced me to ask myself a question I really did not appreciate:

What have I been willing to surrender because I was tired of waiting?

My peace?

My boundaries?

My discernment?

My obedience?

My character?

My voice?

Because desperation will have me paying permanent prices for temporary impatience.

That is why Galatians 6:9 hits differently:

“Let’s not become discouraged in doing good, for in due time we will reap, if we do not become weary.”

Due time.

Not my time.

Due time.

Maybe waiting well means learning not to make deals in the meantime.

Because I have absolutely had some Ursula seasons.

God was taking too long, so I “helped.”

And by helped, I mean I made a complete mess and eventually returned to God like,

“So…funny story.”

I wanted the relationship.

The opportunity.

The money.

The healing.

The answer.

The next season.

The relief.

Whatever it was.

And instead of asking whether it was time, I only asked whether it was possible.

Those are not the same question.

Just because Ursula can make it happen does not mean God sent her.

WHEW.

Romans 12:12 tells me to be “rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer.”

Galatians tells me there is a due season.

Which means the Kingdom has seasons.

Winter.

Spring.

Summer.

Fall.

Due season.

And I keep getting frustrated because I think I am behind schedule when I do not even know the schedule.

That one embarrassed me.

Who told me I was late?

Who told me I should already be there?

Who told me healing should have happened by now?

Who told me my marriage should look a certain way by now?

Who told me professionally I should have arrived already?

Who told me spiritually I should be further along?

Me.

Mostly me.

I created a timeline, handed it to God, and then developed an attitude because He did not follow it.

Girl.

Please.

The truth is, most of what God does in my life happens gradually and then suddenly.

We love suddenly.

Suddenly makes good testimonies.

Gradually does not photograph as well.

The woman with the issue of blood touched Jesus’ garment and was healed.

Suddenly.

We love that part.

Except Mark 5 tells me something else.

She had been bleeding for twelve years.

Twelve.

Years.

We read her story in minutes.

She lived it for more than a decade.

We celebrate the moment the bleeding stopped without sitting long enough with all the mornings she woke up and realized she was still bleeding.

Another doctor.

Another expense.

Another disappointment.

Another prayer.

Another morning.

Another year.

Another “not yet.”

Then suddenly.

We see the healing.

God saw the twelve years.

We see the miracle.

God saw every morning before it.

And maybe that is why I need to stop despising gradual.

Because if I cannot survive the gradual, I may sabotage myself trying to manufacture the suddenly.

I might find an Ursula.

I might trade my voice for legs.

I might call something God because it happened quickly.

I might assume something is wrong because it is taking too long.

When really, everything that gives me what I want quickly does not have good intentions.

And everything that makes me wait does not have bad ones.

Sometimes deception says, “I can give it to you right now.”

Sometimes love says, “Not yet.”

That brings me back to Lazarus.

Lazarus stayed dead long enough to summon an audience.

God did not use Lazarus’ gift.

He used his life.

For a moment, He even used his death.

Lazarus did not preach the sermon.

Lazarus was the sermon.

And that scares me a little.

Because sometimes my assignment may not be what I produce.

Sometimes my assignment is my example.

Sometimes God gets glory through the very thing I would have begged Him to prevent.

That does not make the pain good.

It means pain does not get the final interpretation.

Mary tells Jesus:

“Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” (John 11:32)

Girl.

I have an entire lifetime of “If You had been here” moments.

If You had been here, my dad…

If You had been here, my mom…

If You had been here, that house…

If You had been here, that church…

If You had been here, me.

Yet Jesus does not shame Mary for saying it.

He weeps.

Then He asks:

“Where have you laid him?”

That wrecks me.

Because apparently frustration and faith can live in the same body.

I can be disappointed and still worship.

I can have questions and still follow.

I can cry and still believe God is good.

I can say, “God, I do not understand what You allowed,” without concluding, “Therefore You do not love me.”

Maybe maturity is not pretending the tomb does not hurt.

Maybe maturity is showing Jesus where I laid the thing anyway.

Here.

This is where I buried my trust.

Here is where I buried the prayer I thought You ignored.

Here is where I decided Your delay meant Your absence.

Here is where I stopped believing love could look like this.

Here is my Lazarus.

Show me what You see.

Because God and I clearly do not see my Lazarus the same way.

I see dead.

He sees an audience gathering.

I see delay.

He sees positioning.

I see “too late.”

He sees glory.

And maybe that is what waiting well actually means.

Not pretending I enjoy it.

Not smiling through agony like some spiritually constipated Christian pretending everything is fine.

Waiting well means refusing to let “not yet” become “God doesn’t love me.”

It means continuing to pray when nothing moves.

Continuing to obey when I cannot see why.

Continuing to worship while disappointed.

Continuing to trust that God knows the schedule when I do not.

Because when I do not know how to wait, the wait becomes a weight.

And maybe God is teaching me how to carry it differently.

I still want same-day delivery.

I am still going to watch DoorDash like Homeland Security.

I am still checking Amazon tracking like my package contains the Ark of the Covenant.

Sanctification is gradual too, apparently.

But I am learning.

I spent years asking God to prove He loved me by coming sooner.

Now I am beginning to understand that love was never measured by how quickly He came.

Sometimes love weeps beside the tomb before it opens it.

Sometimes love lets me walk through gradual before giving me suddenly.

Sometimes love refuses to give me legs if getting them right now would cost me my voice.

Sometimes love says:

Not yet.

So my prayer is changing.

Not:

“God, hurry.”

Not even:

“God, make this make sense.”

Just:

“God, teach me to wait well.”

Because I have seen enough of my life to know God does some of His deepest work gradually.

Then suddenly.

And when suddenly finally comes, I do not want anyone confused about whose glory it is.

Especially me.