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I’m not generally one to describe myself as anxious, but this summer got to me.

It has been a season of upheaval. Our living spaces, our schedules, and even our assumptions about health and longevity were all ripped up from beneath us. The walls of our home were literally coming down as we built a home addition; our schedule kept shifting with a new job on the horizon, somehow becoming even more intense than it already was, and a concerning health issue came out of nowhere, leaving us confused and concerned. Our future has felt suspended somewhere between what has been and what might be.

And I don’t like it—not one bit.

I’m a creature of habit. I like the things I like, and I like them to remain unchanged. I like tradition and order, routine and security. I like having a foundation sturdy enough that there’s room for spontaneity and fun because the foundation itself doesn’t waver.

But this summer, it felt like none of those things were left. I felt anxious about the changes, weary in the waiting, and guilty that it was robbing my children—and me—of the carefree summer I had imagined.

The Weight of Waiting

One day, I messaged a dear friend with an update to a prayer request. She’s the kind of person you always remember to ask for prayer because she’s walked through both mountains and valleys, and you know she’ll faithfully carry your intentions to the feet of Jesus.

She assured me of her prayers and concluded her message with just four words:

“Waiting is the cross.”

She was right—not just about that situation, but about nearly every aspect of my life at that moment.

Waiting for construction to be finished.

Waiting for the new job to begin.

Waiting for a treatment plan.

Waiting for clarity about how to hold it all together.

It is all the cross: heavy, unavoidable.

There is no shortcut around it. The only way through it is to wait.

Later, I learned that when she sent that message, she was in the middle of her own family health crisis. How did she have the wisdom I needed at that moment? I felt as though the Holy Spirit had gently taken hold of her phone and prompted her to send me exactly the words I needed to hear.

The Cross Remains

I got to thinking about Jesus’ Cross—how He fell beneath its weight, how it was made of wood (which I have, incidentally, been hearing hammered day in and day out), and how, at the end of that road, there was still suffering. He knew what awaited Him and what the Cross would cost-and He carried it anyway.

The things I am worried about and waiting for may not come to pass without trial or hardship. I know that the difficult season is not yet over, but the Cross remains-and so does Christ.

And because Christ remains, so too does our victory. Despite the waiting, the hardship, the heavy seasons, and the inevitable suffering-the battle has already been won.

During this season, I found myself returning repeatedly to the words of St. Paul:

“We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

It is a promise that does not deny suffering or pretend that everything that happens to us is good. Some things are genuinely painful, some things are frightening, and some things we would never choose – but God is not defeated by any of them. He is able to work even the hardest things toward our good, because the final word belongs not to fear, suffering, or uncertainty, but to Him.

That is the hope I am trying to hold onto while I wait.

To approach God in prayer while still trusting that the victory is already won is a lesson I am desperately trying to learn. It means bringing Him every fear without demanding immediate answers and believing that waiting is not wasted time, but holy ground.

In these seasons of waiting and trying not to worry, I am learning that waiting is not empty space. It is the place where Jesus is teaching me to carry my own cross, one He never asks me to carry alone.