It can be a weary thing, can’t it, to come out of a long battle and find yourself standing on what feels like empty ground. There is a kind of exhaustion that seeps into the bone, not just of the body but of hope itself. For months you have waged war in the spirit for another, his friendships, his health, his happiness, and now you lay down those arms, not in defeat, but in the tender surrender of a soul that has poured itself out. You have been walking through a fire of intercession, and fire, even holy fire, leaves a man tired. You wonder if there is any flame left in you at all, or only the pale ash of old zeal.
Hear this, then, as a word spoken low and kind, right into the quiet of your aching heart: the Lord knows what it is to wait. Before ever we waited for Him, He waited to be gracious to us. His love did not spring up overnight, a sudden well after a storm; it was the deep, ancient fountain of His own heart, waiting through all our wandering until the moment He might pour it out. And if He waited for you, with an intent as fixed as the stars, then you can wait for Him now without shame. The season feels empty, I know. A woman's heart, when it has been poured into prayer for another, does not quickly find its rhythm again when that burden is lifted. Yet consider: a field that lies fallow is not dead. The farmer does not plough on a Sunday; the earth rests, but within its dark breast the rain and the sun are doing secret work. You are not idle because you are still. You are being made ready.
And there is this, which I would paint in homely colours so you may see it clearly. The same Christ who stood before the tomb of Lazarus and wept is the Christ who stands in the waiting-room of your life. He is not impatient. He does not drum His fingers on the sill of heaven, wishing you would hurry up and trust Him better. No. He is the householder who goes out at the third hour, and the sixth, and the eleventh, finding those who are standing idle, not out of laziness, but out of a kind of holy bewilderment, not knowing which way to turn. And He says to such, “Go into the vineyard.” He takes the initiative. The impulse to serve, to love, to hope again, it always begins with Him coming to us, never with us scrambling up to Him. So you need not fret and say, “I must manufacture fresh fire, I must whip my tired soul into feeling something.” That is not the way. The way is to stand in the marketplace of your emptiness and let the Lord of the harvest come to you.
Do you recall the promise about fire? “When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.” The danger you fear, that this dry season will consume you, that your hope will turn to ash and never rekindle, that is the very danger the Lord has insured you against. The fire of trials, yes, and even the fire of passion spent in prayer for another, can be a severe path, but you will not be destroyed. The flame will not kindle upon you. The smell of smoke will pass. What the Lord kindles cannot be extinguished, and what He has planted in you, a longing for a godly union, for a fresh beginning, for strength, is not a weed He will root out. He planted it.
So you wait. But waiting here is not a dreary sitting on a doorstep like a beggar who has lost his way. Look up at the doorpost: you are at your Father’s house. The waiting of a child looking for her father’s return is a very different thing from the waiting of a stranger. The waiting the psalmist speaks of is a bravery of the heart, a tense and joyful expectation. “Wait, I say, on the Lord.” That little word “I say” is David leaning over to you, a veteran soldier who has been through the same cold nights, and whispering, “I have proven it. I have seen the dawn break. Wait with courage.” Your waiting is not a captivity; it is an antechamber. The King knows you are there, and His ear is bent to the door.
Meanwhile, what of this new fire you long for? Old oil must give way to new oil. The anointing of yesterday is no use for the duty of today. The strength you had for the last four months was real strength, but it was measured strength, like water in a cistern. Now you feel the cistern is cracked and dry. This is no evil sign; it is the Lord’s way of drawing you to the ever-springing fountain. He will anoint you with fresh oil. Not by pouring back what you had, that would be a stale mercy, but by giving you a new supply, a new tenderness, a new fire lit by His own hand. That fire will not be the same as the first; it will burn with a steadier flame, perhaps, and a quieter heat. The glory of your strength is that it is all His, not yours. When you are weak, then you are strong, because Christ’s strength pitches its tent in the very centre of your weakness and makes a fortress out of the ruins.
And for the one who is to come, the one God is shaping for you just as He is shaping you for him, leave that work in the dark workshop of the Lord. You cannot hasten the craftsman’s hand. He can accomplish His own purposes without violating the gentle laws of your heart. In silken bonds, stronger than iron, He draws two souls together in His own time. The same hand that set the boundaries of the sea and said, “Thus far and no further,” sets the bounds of your waiting. It is not a cruel boundary but a shore against a rising tide. When the appointed day comes, you will find that the waiting itself was part of the gift, a season that fitted you for the joy, that carved out in your soul a deeper capacity for a love rooted in Him.
You are not forgotten. The Lord waited to be gracious to you before you ever knew His name; He will not abandon the work He began. The love-letter may come in a black-edged envelope, written in losses and endings, but it is a love-letter nonetheless, sealed with the King’s own signet. Hold it to your heart and listen for His footstep.
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Lord Jesus, you who are the Bridegroom of every waiting heart, draw near now to this dear soul who looks to you in the quiet of her own room. You see the tiredness, you see the hope that trembles like a candle in a draught, come and cup your hand round it. Be the fresh oil upon her spirit, the new strength she does not know how to ask for. In this season of fallowness, be the unseen dew. And when the time is right, which you alone can tell, bring that earthly comfort which best mirrors your love, in the bond that honours you. Until then, make her wait brave, make her heart still, and let the peace which passes understanding stand sentry over her thoughts and desires. Amen.
Prayer Focus: God, Thank You for loving me. Thank You for loving me, Jesus. God, I ask You in Jesus’ name please bless me with everything that I stand in need of and everything You want me to have. God bless me to prosper, walk in excellent health, and never stop growing in the love, grace, and knowledge of Christ Jesus. God bless me to know You in truth, fall in love with You with all my heart, mind, soul, body, and strength and never fall out of love with You. Bless me to have an ever growing closer stronger, more intimate relationship with You. Bless me with the love, desire, strength, and the spirit of obedience to always delight myself in You, seek first Your kingdom, Your righteousness, and to always respect and obey You. Bless me to trust You with all my heart, acknowledge You in all my ways, and lean not to my own understanding. Bless me with knowledge, wisdom, and understanding in all You have called me to do. 
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