A few weeks ago, our church council approved something monumental: new tables for the social hall. Not exactly headline news, I know, but these tables have been around forever. Apparently, the youth group once used them as skate ramps, so they’re warped, uneven, and long overdue for replacement.

After some research, I ordered about fourteen of them. Because they’re large and arriving on a pallet, and because we don’t have a loading dock, I had to pay extra for delivery that required me to be physically present. If I missed it, I’d have to pay the shipping fee all over again.

The website promised they’d arrive in three days. So on my day off, I did what any responsible person would do: nothing. I stayed home all day, afraid to miss the delivery. I checked the tracking constantly. “Out for delivery.” “Arriving today.”

Then 8 p.m. came. Nothing. I refreshed the page: “Delayed.” No explanation. No new timeline. Just… delayed. And I was frustrated. Not because we desperately needed the tables (we didn’t) but because I had built my day around an expectation that wasn’t met. It’s not just about the package. It’s about the timing.

And honestly, that’s how faith can feel. We don’t just believe that Jesus can show up; we quietly expect Him to show up on our timeline. And when He doesn’t, it’s disorienting. Frustrating. Even painful. Maybe you’ve felt that. You prayed for healing, but the diagnosis didn’t change. You fought for a relationship, but it still fell apart. You stepped out in faith, but the door stayed closed. It’s one thing when hope is still alive. It’s another when “not yet” starts to feel like “too late.”

That’s exactly the tension we find in John 11, the story of Lazarus. When Jesus hears that His friend is sick, the expectation is obvious: He’ll go immediately. He’ll heal. He’ll fix it. But He doesn’t. Instead, He waits. John tells us something that feels almost contradictory: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So… He stayed where He was two more days.”

That’s not how we’d write the story. We’d expect love to look like urgency. But Jesus’ delay isn’t indifference: it’s intentional. By the time He arrives, Lazarus has been dead for four days. The situation has moved from crisis to finality. Both Martha and Mary meet Him with the same words: “Lord, if you had been here…”

It’s an honest question: Where were you?

And Jesus doesn’t rebuke them. He doesn’t offer a quick explanation. He listens. He engages. And then, standing at the tomb of His friend, He weeps. Even though He knows resurrection is moments away, He still enters their grief.

That matters. Jesus is not distant from your pain. He doesn’t stand far off and tell you to “just trust Him.” He steps into the sorrow. He feels it with you. And then He makes a staggering claim: “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not just someday. Not just in the future. Right now.

When Jesus reaches the tomb, everything screams finality. The stone is sealed. The body is decaying. Martha even warns Him that it’s too far gone. But Jesus tells them to move the stone. Then He calls out, “Lazarus, come out.” And a dead man walks out of a grave.

This story moves from delay… to doubt… to death. But Jesus stands over all of it and declares that none of those things get the final word. And that’s where this meets us.

Where in your life does it feel like Jesus is late? A prayer that feels unanswered. A situation that feels stuck. A loss that feels permanent. Don’t confuse delay with absence.

In John 11, while Jesus appeared absent, He was already on the way. So what do we do in the waiting?

Trust His heart, even when you don’t understand His timing. Bring your grief honestly to Him, He can handle it. And listen for His voice, even in places that feel dead. Because it may feel too far gone to you. But it’s never too far gone for Jesus.