DEC 27 | The Weight of Finally
When the time came for the purification rites required by the Law of Moses, Joseph and Mary took him to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the Law of the Lord, "Every firstborn male is to be consecrated to the Lord"), and to offer a sacrifice in keeping with what is said in the Law of the Lord: "a pair of doves or two young pigeons."
Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Messiah. Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you may now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel."
The child's father and mother marveled at what was said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: "This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too."
— Luke 2:22-35 (NIV)
The temple courts are crowded, as they always are. You have been here so many times you have lost count—morning prayers, evening prayers, the slow accumulation of years measured in footsteps across these stones. You are old now. Your bones know it. Your eyes know it. And still you come.
Today feels no different than yesterday. The same shuffle of pilgrims. The same smell of incense and sacrifice. The same murmur of liturgy and commerce tangled together in the air.
Except something stirs in you. Something you have learned not to ignore.
"Simeon."
You turn toward the Court of Women. A young couple stands near the entrance, poor by the look of their offering—two pigeons, nothing more. The woman holds a bundle against her chest. She looks tired. Travel-worn. The man beside her scans the crowd with the nervous vigilance of someone who has recently fled something.
And the bundle moves.
"How long have you been waiting?" I imagine the young mother asking, after you take the child from her arms without explaining why.
How would you answer that, Simeon?
How do you count the years when the promise has no date? When the Spirit whispers you will see him before you die but does not tell you how many winters you will walk through first? When your friends have buried their friends, and still you wake each morning with an ache you cannot name?
"Long enough," you might say. "Long enough that I stopped counting. Long enough that the waiting became the work."
I wonder if Mary understood what she was handing you. A six-week-old infant. Warm. Fragile. So small that his whole future fit in the crook of your elbow. She could not have known that she was completing something—that her ordinary act of temple obedience was the hinge on which your entire life turned.
And then you spoke.
Not to her. Not to the child. To God.
"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you may now dismiss your servant in peace."
Dismiss. The word is military. A soldier released from duty. A watchman who has kept his post through the longest night and finally sees the relief guard approaching. You were not clinging to life, Simeon. You were stationed at it—holding your position until the One you waited for arrived.
Now the watch was over.
"But then you said something else," I imagine Mary whispering, years later, when the memory has had time to haunt her. "You blessed us, and then you looked at me."
You did. You saw the sword before she felt it.
This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many. You held the consolation of Israel in your arms and told his mother that consolation would cost her everything. The same hands that cradled salvation pointed toward Golgotha.
That is what waiting teaches, isn't it? The promise is always bigger than we imagined—and heavier. The thing we longed for arrives, and it is more than we can carry. More than we expected. More costly. More glorious. Both at once.
I think of you sometimes, Simeon, when my own waiting feels endless.
When the prayers have worn grooves in my heart and the answer still has not come. When I have stood at the threshold so long that I have forgotten what the other side looks like. When the silence of God feels less like mystery and more like absence.
You did not wait passively. Luke says you were righteous and devout. The waiting did not excuse you from faithfulness—it demanded it. Every morning you rose and walked into the uncertainty, doing the next right thing while the promise remained unfulfilled.
And then one Tuesday—or whatever day it was—you saw a peasant couple with a baby and two birds, and you knew.
The promise did not arrive with fanfare. No trumpets. No angelic choir—at least, not in the temple that day. Just a mother who looked exhausted, a father who looked anxious, and a child who looked like any other child.
Except he was not.
Here is what I am learning from you, old man:
The waiting is not wasted. Not a single morning of it. Every trip to the temple, every prayer prayed into silence, every night you lay down wondering if tomorrow would be different—it was all preparation. You were being made ready to recognize what others walked past without seeing.
And when the moment came, you did not hesitate. You reached out your arms, took hold of the promise, and spoke blessing over what you had waited a lifetime to see.
You were ready because you had been faithful. And you were faithful because you trusted the One who made the promise.
I do not know what you are waiting for. I do not know how many years the silence has stretched, or how close you are to giving up.
But I know this: the God who spoke to Simeon is the same God who is present in your waiting. He has not forgotten the promise. He is not running behind schedule. And when the moment comes—when the thing you have ached for finally arrives—you will not miss it.
Because the waiting is making you ready.
For my eyes have seen your salvation.
One day, you will hold the weight of finally in your arms. And you will know it was worth every silent morning.
Today
Name one thing you are still waiting for—something you have prayed about but not yet received. Write it on a piece of paper, fold it, and place it somewhere you will see it this week. Each time you see it, whisper: "Lord, I am still at my post. Help me trust your timing."
An Invitation to go Deeper….
If today’s message spoke to you, join the FaithLabz 30-Day Prayer Challenge and strengthen your connection with God’s unshakable love. You are never alone—let’s grow together!
