Here In the Waiting
- Hannah Tekle
- May 1
- 4 min read
Tents of Mercy Congregation
Kiryat Yam, Israel
Nobody likes waiting. Some do it more graciously than others, but still – it chafes at our modern instincts. In this age when everyone has smartphones, waiting looks different than it used to. We scroll, we distract, we numb the discomfort with endless feeds and flashing screens. But when the wait is deep – when it’s not just about a bus or a text reply, but about something sacred and uncertain – no amount of scrolling can soothe the ache. And for me, it’s that kind of waiting that has shaped this season of life: open-ended, blurry-edged waiting, where the outcome and the timeline are both hidden and only in God’s hands.
It takes me back to when I was pregnant with each of our children. I remember the anticipation we felt, the dreams we dreamt for each one before we’d even seen their face. I remember folding tiny clothes and pacing the apartment with that mix of eagerness and fear. Even though there was a due date, it didn’t mean we had clarity. We did not know how the labor would unfold, what each child would look like, or who they would become. We were waiting for something beautiful, yes – but it was still waiting in the dark. What carried us through was the assurance, deep down, that new life was coming. That even through pain, something good would be born.
Now that they’re older, the waiting hasn’t ended – it’s just changed shape. We wait to see who they’ll become, what paths they’ll choose. We wonder what units the boys will serve in when their army time comes. We wait to see what studies they will pursue, what passions will pull them, and what struggles they’ll face. We wait to see who will catch their hearts and eventually stand beside them under the wedding chuppah canopy one day. And though they left my womb long ago, they are still growing inside my prayers.
Each of these “prayer pregnancies” is a long, beautiful but active waiting. For the birthing of their future – for maturity, for calling, for the fullness of who God created them to be.
That kind of waiting is dramatically different and yet similar in some ways to what my friend is living through now. Her mother is dying. It’s not dramatic or rushed – just the slow, quiet closing of a life. And yet, there’s something holy in it. My friend has made peace with her mother. Whatever needed to be said has been said. Now, when she sits beside her, she reads Scripture softly and plays worship music in the background, letting melodies of heaven fill the space. There is grief, yes, but not panicked clinging. She has released her mother to go when God decides to take her – for her birth into eternity! And she waits in a posture of surrender that is inspiring and faith-building.
As a people, we are also waiting with aching hearts for the hostages. Their names are etched into our dreams and daily prayers. We wait alongside their families who light candles and hold signs and beg heaven for mercy. And we try to imagine the hostages themselves – waiting in the dark tunnels, whispering hope to themselves, holding on for one more day. Time stretches cruelly for them, and we carry that burden too. We hold their pain and do not look away. This waiting binds us, wounds us, and strengthens our resolve.
As believers in Israel, we are familiar with the tension of the in-between. We stand not only as individuals, but as a community stretched between promises made and promises fulfilled. Between sorrow and redemption. Between the suffering of this world and the kingdom yet to come. We know Yeshua is coming. We believe He is near. And yet – we wait.
He is not distant in this waiting. He knows it intimately. He waited for thirty years before stepping into His calling. He waited in the desert. He waited in the garden. He waited on the cross. And He waits even now – for the fullness of His kingdom, for every captive to be set free, for every tear to be wiped away. And in that, we find comfort.
We are learning together that hope is not passive. Hope is active. Hope sings when the night is long. Hope refuses to give up on the future. Hope believes that God is working behind the veil, even when our eyes see nothing. Hope is a flame that does not die, even in the winds of grief. Here in the waiting, we are being shaped. Our faith is stretched, our compassion deepened. We are becoming a people who can carry both sorrow and expectation. A people who live with open hands. A people who wait not with despair, but with watchfulness – like those keeping oil in their lamps, with eyes on the horizon.
So we wait – for healing, for justice, for return, for the kingdom. We wait beside hospital beds and in the quiet of our homes. We wait in protest lines and prayer circles, in delivery rooms and cemeteries. We wait with tears and with trust. And we whisper, as one people, “Come, Lord Yeshua. Come.”
Because here in the waiting, we are not alone.
ANNUAL PASSOVER OUTREACH
In the weeks before Passover, we were once again privileged to pack and distribute 900 bags of food to share with the people in our city who are in need of extra help and encouragement.
