I wondered this morning if Lazarus groaned.

Not from illness—but from disappointment. I mean, imagine you’re best buddies with Jesus, the miracle-working Messiah, and your sisters send for Him because you’re sick—deathly sick. You expect Him to burst in like some renowned medical doctor, lay hands, raise eyebrows, wave His robe, and say something dramatically King James-y like, “Be thou healed!”

But no.

He doesn’t show up. Not Day One. Not Two. Not even Three.

By Day Four, you’re dead, buried, and probably your body, humming along with the worms.

But what if, just what if, Lazarus didn’t groan in disappointment but smiled in expectation—even as he slipped into the arms of death? What if he knew Jesus well enough to say, “If He’s late, He’s up to something bigger”?

That, dear reader, is faith with flair.

Jesus, when told His beloved friend was death’s new victim, calmly told His disciples, “This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God.” I can imagine Peter scratching his beard, Thomas doubting as usual, and John just sighing poetically.

But Jesus wasn’t rushing. No panic. No ambulance chariot.

He was waiting—for something greater than healing.

And that brings me to you. Yes, you—peeking into this piece hoping for a little encouragement while waiting for your miracle. Perhaps you’ve prayed for healing. Or begged heaven for a job offer, or whispered tearfully for a breakthrough so overdue it is becoming unbearable.

And… nothing.

May I suggest, in the most polite way possible: Maybe it’s not a “no”—just a divine delay for something bigger than you imagine.

You see, when things get into a crisis, people watch like eager spectators. They don’t necessarily listen to your sermons, but they do watch your storms. How you sail through them says more than all the words you say or write.

I remember my father-in-law—faithful man of God, bold believer—facing a major surgery. I asked him the night before, just before he went to bed, “Are you scared?”
He smiled. Just smiled. And said one word, softly, like it was stitched into the fabric of his soul: “No.”

That no did more for my faith than a thousand hallelujahs from church pulpits.

Because it wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t denial. It was trust. A certainty that even when Jesus doesn’t rush in, He’ll eventually call your name with such power that graves can’t hold you.

So, if you’re in your own waiting room, moaning, “Where is He?”—hang in there. Someone’s watching. Someone’s learning. Maybe many “someones.” Maybe your children, your friends, or a stranger in the next hospital bed.

Maybe, just maybe, the miracle isn’t just your healing. Maybe the bigger miracle is the faith you inspire during your waiting.

And that’s worth every delay, isn’t it?

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