I have noticed that crosswalks are designed to test the spiritual maturity of otherwise reasonable adults.
You press the button — sometimes once, sometimes with the firm conviction that pressing it again will hurry the Almighty along — and then you wait. The little white walking figure does not immediately appear. Cars continue to roar past as if the laws of physics and courtesy were optional. Somewhere, a driver makes eye contact that says, You go ahead. I dare you.
This, I have come to believe, is where God likes to meet us.
The crosswalk is not a place of dramatic miracles. No burning bushes. No booming voice from heaven. Just a red hand, blinking patiently, as if to say, Not yet.
We live in a world trained to sprint. We jog through emails, skim conversations, and hurry even our prayers, offering God a theological version of fast food: “Bless this, fix that, thank you very much.” Waiting feels inefficient. Waiting feels unproductive. Waiting feels suspiciously like doing nothing.
But the crosswalk insists on trust.
You can step out early, of course. Many do. There is a brief rush, a flutter of adrenaline, and the faint awareness that your guardian angel has just rolled their eyes. Or you can wait — hands in pockets, heart slowed, eyes lifted — until the light changes. When it does, the street opens not because you seized it, but because it was given.
Faith often works this way. God rarely shouts, “Go now!” More often, God stands beside us in the pause, teaching us that timing is not the enemy of faith but its companion. The red light is not a refusal; it is a preparation.
Scripture is full of people at crosswalks: Abraham waiting for a promise, Israel waiting in the wilderness, Mary waiting for clarity, the disciples waiting in an upper room. None of them got a timetable. All of them learned that God’s presence was not delayed simply because the answer was.
The spiritual life, it turns out, is less about sprinting through intersections and more about learning to stand still without panic. About trusting that the light will change. About believing that when it does, it will be safe — not because there is no traffic, but because God has already stepped into the road ahead of us.
So the next time you are standing at a crosswalk, finger hovering over the button as if one more press might hurry eternity along, take a breath. God is already there. Waiting with you. Unrushed. Unanxious. Perfectly on time.
And when the light changes, walk. Don’t run. Grace keeps pace.
Companion Prayer
Holy God,
You meet us not only in motion, but in stillness;
not only in answers, but in waiting.
Teach us to trust the red lights of our lives
as places of preparation rather than frustration.
Slow our anxious hearts, steady our hurried steps,
and help us to move forward when the time is right —
not in fear, but in faith.
Amen.