The Assignment Hidden in the Pause
This Tuesday morning, I realized how much of our life is being lived in the language of waiting.
We are waiting for the house to sell.
Waiting to move.
Waiting to discover where our next home will be.
Waiting to know what must go with us and what should be released.
Waiting for the next chapter.
Waiting for the next assignment.
Waiting can make life feel as though it has been temporarily placed on hold. We begin looking toward some future date when the house has sold, the boxes have been unpacked, and everything has settled into a new order.
Then, we tell ourselves, life can begin again.
But life is not waiting to begin.
It is happening now.
God is here now.
And sometimes the next assignment arrives while we are still waiting for the larger answer.
I have often said:
Jesus says, “Follow Me,” and occasionally He gives me assignments.
This morning, one of those assignments arrived.
It did not come with thunder or a burning bush. It came through a simple request for a teaching.
At first, it appeared to be one lesson.
Then the thought opened.
The lesson became a series:
In the Waiting: What God Does While We Wait.
Eight teachings began to emerge—sacred ground, active hope, the Word, worship, prayer, faithfulness, formation, and thanksgiving.
While I was waiting for the next assignment, I discovered that I was already standing in it.
Perhaps that is how the Lord often leads us.
We look down the road for something large and unmistakable. Meanwhile, Jesus places one small act of obedience directly in front of us.
Follow Me.
Write this.
Call that person.
Encourage someone.
Prepare a lesson.
Open your home.
Do the next faithful thing.
The larger questions may remain unanswered.
The house has not yet sold.
We do not yet know where we will live.
The boxes are not yet packed.
The next season has not fully revealed itself.
But today’s assignment does not require tomorrow’s address.
It only requires today’s obedience.
Isaiah wrote:
“But those who wait on the LORD
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
They shall run and not be weary,
They shall walk and not faint.”
—Isaiah 40:31 NKJV
Most days do not feel like soaring.
Some do not even feel like running.
Most days are walking days.
Make the coffee.
Wash the dishes.
Sort another stack.
Answer the telephone.
Prepare the teaching.
Love the person beside you.
Take the next step.
Then take another.
There is no shame in walking.
Walking with Jesus is still following Jesus.
We tend to think the waiting room is the space between assignments. Perhaps it is often where assignments are given.
Moses was tending sheep when God called his name from the burning bush. He had spent forty years in Midian. At eighty years of age, he may have assumed that the important part of his life was behind him.
But the wilderness was not empty.
The waiting was not wasted.
And Moses was not finished.
Neither are we.
The waiting place can become sacred ground when we recognize that God is already there.
So today, Tanya and I are still waiting.
We are waiting for a buyer.
Waiting for a move.
Waiting for a home we may not yet have seen.
Waiting to understand what the next season will hold.
But we are not doing nothing.
We are living.
We are listening.
We are following.
And when an assignment appears, we will do the best we can with what God has placed in our hands.
Perhaps that is enough for today.
I do not need to know the entire road.
I only need to recognize the next step.
Jesus still says:
“Follow Me.”
The house may sell tomorrow.
The next home may become clear next week.
The larger assignment may unfold gradually.
Or the waiting may continue longer than we hope.
But God is not absent from the pause.
He is not waiting for our circumstances to change before He begins working in us or through us.
Sometimes the next chapter begins before the previous one has completely closed.
Sometimes the assignment is hidden within the interruption.
And sometimes, while we are waiting for life to move forward, Jesus quietly reminds us:
You are already walking with Me.
