Hurry Up and Wait: Ancient Wisdom for the Impatient Soul

Today’s reading included Psalm 37 and Psalm 71, both of which wrestle with ideas that feel difficult to grasp in modern life: waiting, trusting, and believing that good will prevail—eventually.

In Psalm 37, the author encourages the reader not to envy the wicked or be anxious about evildoers. It insists that their success is temporary, that they will "fade like the grass." Instead, the reader is told to trust, to dwell, to commit, and to be still. Those are not easy verbs. In a culture that rewards speed and rewards, this kind of long-term thinking can feel almost impossible. What does it mean to wait patiently for justice when it seems like those who cause harm face no consequences? Is it still trust if it comes with doubt and restlessness?

The Long Game, According to Psalm 71

Psalm 71 seems to come from someone much older, someone looking back on a long life of struggle and endurance. There’s a sense of weariness, but also persistence. The speaker asks not to be abandoned in old age and points out that they’ve been supported since birth. It’s a reminder that time itself is part of the story. Wisdom and faithfulness—or perhaps just survival—are things that unfold slowly. The speaker still wants help, still asks for strength. There’s no moment of final clarity, just ongoing dependence.

Trust Without a Timeline

Together, these psalms challenge the idea that good things happen quickly, or that peace and justice are instant outcomes of good behavior. They offer a view of life that involves long stretches of not knowing, of continuing on despite questions. That feels honest. In real life, change is slow. People grow slowly. Systems shift slowly. And when we hope for better, it often takes more time than we think it should.

I found myself thinking about how little space we give to slow processes. So much of what we consume pushes urgency: act now, buy now, respond immediately. Even our emotional lives can get shaped by this rhythm—we want healing, resolution, or clarity on demand. These psalms don’t offer that. Instead, they describe a different pace. One where goodness isn’t flashy, and where waiting isn't wasted time.

Endurance > Certainty?

I don’t know what to make of it all. But I’m interested in the idea that trust might look less like certainty and more like endurance. Not a clean, polished trust that never wavers, but a daily choice to keep going in the absence of proof. The kind of trust that survives disappointment.

Maybe the slowness is the point. Not because it feels good, but because it reflects something true about how people live, grow, and hope over time.