Waiting Room to Worship Room
- RedeemedCoop
- Jun 27
- 2 min read
“Turn your waiting room into a classroom.”
That’s what I heard at The Homestead Festival, and while the speaker was talking about gardening and homesteading, God whispered something entirely different to my heart that morning:
Turn your waiting room into a worship room.
There are kinds of waiting that feel light and easy—like watching sourdough bread rise in the oven or sitting on my “thinking rock” as the sun dips behind the trees. But then there’s the kind that aches too deep for words. The kind where you feel like you’ve been holding your breath a little too long. When your prayers echo, your phone stays silent, and your heart wonders if hope is still worth holding onto.
We’ve known that kind of waiting. Years of infertility. Countless tests and procedures. Embryo transfers. Two heart-wrenching losses. Pursuing adoption. Completing our homestudy. Reviewing and submitting our profile for potential cases. So many whispered prayers. And still—we wait. With open hands. With open hearts. Trusting that the last (nearly) 14 years have not been wasted, but instead are preparing us for the family we continue to pray for.
If you’re in a waiting season too, I want you to know: you are not alone. And more importantly—God is not absent. Waiting often feels like nothing is happening. But stillness doesn’t mean stagnation. Just like seeds grow deep roots before ever pushing through the soil, God often does His most transforming work in the hidden places.
That’s where worship comes in.
Worship isn’t just a song you sing on Sunday. It’s the choice to say, even here LORD you are worthy of my praise.
Even when the answer hasn’t come.
Even when the silence stretches longer than we imagined.
Even when the tears fall once again.
Psalm 27:13–14 reminds us:
“I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!.”
Worship in the waiting is brave.
It’s not denial of pain—it’s defiant hope.
It’s turning your tears into prayers.
Your journal entries into altars.
Your longing into a beautiful song.
So whether you’re waiting for healing, a child, clarity, or a breakthrough—keep showing up. Keep praying. Keep journaling. Let your waiting room become the place you worship Him most intimately.
One day, this season will become your testimony. And the words you’re writing in the darkest moments may be the very words someone else needs to find their way toward the light.
How can I pray for you?
This is beautiful, Amanda. And so encouraging! Exactly what I needed to hear this morning.