We're All Waiting

I’ve never had good memories of the hospital. Honestly, I’m not sure anyone does. As a kid, I remember seeing people rushed through the halls, hooked up to machines, crying out in pain or frustration. Everything felt loud and slow all at once. The ER was a place of fear to me. But recently, my perspective shifted.

I haven’t been feeling well the last two months, and that resulted in a hospital visit. This time felt different. I found myself strangely comforted by the nurses checking vitals and the doctors moving from room to room. I didn’t mind the unpleasantness that comes with a waiting room. And I think I know why: I am in need of healing. Desperate need.

Right now, I need physical healing. But the more I sat there, the more I realized how universal that need is. Everyone is carrying something. Pain you can see. Pain you can’t. As I watched the room, it struck me that no one there was untouched. In one way or another, every single person was waiting to be cared for, hoping to be made better again.

That night, I saw more than illness. I saw humanity. I saw fear held together by hope. Faces exhausted, yet trying to be brave—silent prayers, quiet patience. It became clear to me that healing isn’t only something we ask God for when we’re sick; it’s something the soul longs for in every season of life.

There’s something about the ER that humbles you quickly. You feel far from put together or strong. You’re just human. And as amazing and comforting as the doctors and nurses were, I realized something else: they can only do so much. They offer treatment, relief, stability but not complete healing. What they give is often temporary, a pause in the pain, not the end of it.

Maybe that’s why the waiting room feels so heavy. Because deep down, we know this world can’t fully fix us. Every IV, every prescription, every discharge paper is a reminder that brokenness still exists—that bodies fail, hearts ache, and suffering lingers. We are grateful for care, but we’re still waiting.

Yet even in that space, there was hope. Because there is a place we can look forward to where healing isn’t partial or fleeting. A place where pain doesn’t return, where fear doesn’t linger, where nothing is fractured or fragile anymore. Where we are completely and wholly healed—not just physically, but fully, finally restored.

I sat there feeling small and scared, yet somehow seen. And as people came and went and names were called, I kept thinking—we’re all here for the same reason. We’re all waiting. Waiting to be healed in ways this world can only begin to offer.