There are seasons in faith that ask of us nothing more — and nothing less — than to wait. Not to act, not to push, not to solve. Only to stand at the threshold and trust that the door, in its own time, will open. This sonnet sits with the discipline of that holy waiting.
The Sonnet
I stand before a door I cannot force, Whose hinges I will never come to know, Whose timing follows no familiar course, Whose key is held by hands I cannot show. I had thought faith was action, swift and clear, A doing-something for the One above, But here, where every striving must stand near, I learn that waiting too can be a love. The threshold teaches what the journey could not: That trust is mostly stillness, not advance, That doors not yet released were never bought, That patience is its own quiet covenant. So I will wait, however long the day, For doors are opened in their proper way.
Reflection
Waiting is one of the most unwelcome teachers of the spiritual life. We are formed by a culture that worships effort and outcome — and faith often asks us, instead, to stand still. To trust that what we cannot force is being prepared. To resist the urge to rattle the latch.
The threshold has its own work to do in us. It strips away the illusion that everything depends on our striving. It teaches a different kind of strength — the strength to stay, to trust, to not turn away when nothing seems to be happening. The door, when it opens, opens in its own time. The waiting was never wasted; it was the doorway being made ready for the one who would walk through.
If you are waiting on something today — an answer, an opening, a turn — know that the waiting itself is part of how you are being prepared. Stand still, and trust the One who holds the key.
