Midweek Musing 3/18/26: Seeing Differently in the Waiting

Midweek Musing: Seeing Differently in the Waiting

I didn’t expect to be writing this week’s musing from a hospital room.

I didn’t ask for a hernia or the pain that accompanied it. I would not recommend this to anyone. Hernias get a 0 out of 5 stars.

Fortunately, the awful acute pain is managed but now I am waiting for the next steps which includes surgery. But the when, where, who…. that is the great mystery that I am, waiting to see solved.

Now, waiting has a way of slowing everything down and hospital waiting has its own unique pattern. The steady rhythm of monitors, the quiet hum of conversation in the hallway, the pauses between updates, the rolling of carts and equipment down corridors, it all creates a kind of space you that, while you didn’t plan for it, gives you opportunity to think and remember. It is space to notice and to feel.

And if I’m honest… space to wrestle a little with anxiety. Yes, there have been real moments of worry.

But in the midst of all that, something unexpected has happened.

Amid the uncertainty, I’ve been surrounded by extraordinary people, nurses, doctors, staff, all moving from room to room, carrying not only charts and medications, but the weight of countless stories. Some of those stories end in healing. Some are much harder. And yet, they show up. Again and again.

Kind. Patient. Present.

And I’ve found myself noticing them in a way I might not have otherwise.

The nurse who checks in not just on vitals, but on how you’re really doing. The staff member who offers a quiet word of encouragement in passing. The doctor who carries both knowledge and compassion into every room.

And it reminded me of something I hadn’t thought about in years.

You see, there was a time when I came to the old hospital that once stood near here. That old hospital has mercifully been torn down for some sort of new construction.

That place wasn’t much to look at, if I am being honest. The infrastructure was worn down. The rooms felt dated. You could tell it had seen better days, and those better days had been decades ago. Dilapidated is a good description.

And yet… even there, something amazing and even holy was happening.

I remember walking those halls once or twice, witnessing moments of care that had nothing to do with the building itself. People showing up for people. Doctors and nurses doing extraordinary work in very ordinary—even crumbling—conditions. It wasn’t polished or impressive on the surface.

But it profoundly mattered.

Fast forward to now, and I’m sitting in a brand-new, state-of-the-art facility. Bright, clean, advanced. It’s the kind of place that inspires confidence the moment you walk in.

During a visit this morning with the hospital doctor, I discovered that he had worked in both locations, the old hospital and this new one.

We talked and laughed about those earlier days. About the work that was done when things weren’t as easy, when the surroundings didn’t match the significance of the endeavor.

And I simply said, “Thank you—for what you did then, and what you’re doing now.”

He paused.

He looked out the huge 7th floor window in my room.

And he smiled.

You could tell he wasn’t just seeing the view in front of him. He was remembering. The long days. The hard moments. The quiet victories. The lives touched in a place that no longer even exists.

And for just a moment, in what I’m sure was a very full and heavy day, I believe there was joy.

It struck me later after I had a much-needed shower, how small that moment was and yet how much it mattered.

Because if I’m honest, it would have been easy for me to spend that entire interaction focused only on myself. My situation. My waiting. My concerns. That’s what we naturally do when life feels uncertain or uncomfortable. In such moments, our world can get smaller.

But what if even here, even in times and circumstances like this, we accept our faith’s invitation to see things differently?

The Apostle Paul writes in Romans 5:

“We boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit…”

Paul is absolutely not saying that suffering is good.

He is saying that God refuses to waste it.

That even in the moments we would never choose, moments of waiting, uncertainty, discomfort, God is still at work, forming something within us that could not be formed any other way. Endurance. Character. Hope.

And not a shallow, surface-level hope. Nor the kind that depends on circumstances going our way.

But a deep, rooted, unshakable hope grounded in the love of God. This is a love Paul reminds us was given to us “while we were still weak… while we were still sinners.” A love that meets us not when we have it all together, but right in the middle of our need.

Which means this:

Even here… even now… we are not just recipients of care.

We are participants in grace.

That’s what struck me in that moment with the doctor. The doctor came into that room, and I needed needing something, and I still do, but I also realized I had something to give. Not something big. Not something dramatic.

Just a word.

A simple thank you.

A moment of recognition.

And somehow, in that small exchange, I believe something of the gospel broke through in a quiet, unmistakable way.

Because the gospel is not only something we receive. It is something we live. Something we share. Something that shows up in the smallest, most ordinary moments, especially when life is hard.

And perhaps that is part of what Lent is inviting us to rediscover.

Lent is a season where we take an honest look at ourselves. Where we name the things in us that fall short. The ways we’ve missed the mark. The habits, attitudes, and patterns we wish were different.

But Lent is not about staying there.

It’s about, to borrow a line from The Byrd’s greatest hits, it is a season of turning.

Turning toward the God who has already turned toward us.

Turning toward a new way of living.

Turning toward hope.

And maybe, just maybe, part of that turning looks like this:

Choosing gratitude instead of frustration.

Choosing kindness instead of indifference.

Choosing to see the people right in front of us even when we ourselves are hurting.

Because the truth is, we never know what someone else is carrying. The nurse who walks into the room. The doctor delivering difficult news. The person behind the counter. The colleague down the hall. The neighbor down the street.

And we never know how a small moment such as a word of thanks, a gesture of appreciation, even a wave and a smile might become a moment of grace.

Not because we are extraordinary.

But because God is still pouring extraordinary love into ordinary hearts like ours.

Paul says that hope does not disappoint us.

And I think part of that is because hope is not something we just hold onto, it is something we pass along to others.

So maybe that’s the invitation this week.

Not to ignore the hard things.

Not to pretend everything is okay.

But to look for the places, right in the middle of it all, where we can still choose to see differently.

To notice.

To give thanks.

To offer kindness.

To participate in the quiet, steady work of grace.

Because even here…

Especially here…

God is not finished.

And friends…neither are we.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Alleluia. Amen.