Nights full of lonely accusatory questions aimed at yourself. “Am I even a Christian, does God love me anymore?” Your sin, like a desert, drying up every bit of hopeful water you have. Where do we turn when this is where we find ourselves?

What if in our productivity addicted culture we confuse the potential blessing of the green pastures and the still waters with the valley of the shadow of death because we detest the stillness of waiting? What if God's green pasture for you was a season of waiting—Because thats the only place He could get you to stop and sit still? What if the season you needed to hear his sweet, tender voice was the quietness found in waiting? Everybody likes the idea of the still waters until you’re there- and you find that theres nothing to do but wait.