He’s good at waiting.
He’s been doing it since before the foundation of the world when He dreamed this whole thing up.
Waiting for the fullness of time. Waiting for the moment of redemption in a billion different stories. He’s waiting now.
He’s waiting for me to turn back from the pigpen, waiting for my shadowy figure to appear on the horizon, waiting to fling up His robes and run toward me. He’s waiting for me to turn off the TV and open the letter He left me to tell me to assure me that I’m not alone no matter what it looks like.