Trusting God in the Waiting

There are moments in life when you suddenly realize how little control you truly have.

For our family, one of those moments came in the early days of the COVID pandemic.

My sister works as a nurse in London. Like many healthcare workers during those uncertain months, she was on the frontlines while the world was still trying to understand a virus that seemed to change everything overnight.

When she first told us she had tested positive sometime in late March 2020, the symptoms sounded almost ordinary: a sore throat, a bit of a headache. Nothing too alarming at the start. We were worried, of course, but still cautiously optimistic. Many people were recovering after a few days of isolation. We hoped her case would be the same.

But about a week later, things took a turn.

Her breathing became more difficult, and her partner brought her to the hospital. She was placed on a non-invasive ventilator, and soon after, she was admitted to the intensive therapy unit. Within days she was sedated and intubated.

We were thousands of miles away in the Philippines.

In the early weeks of the pandemic, travel was impossible. Hospitals were overwhelmed. Families were separated. There was nothing we could do but wait.

Being a nurse, my sister had many colleagues and friends in the hospital who helped keep us updated. We were grateful for that kindness, but knowing more also made the situation feel painfully real.

At one point, her partner — the only family we had nearby in those thousands of miles — received the warning no one ever wants to hear:

I remember the night the message came through. My other sister and I had been constantly checking with each other for updates from London. When I read the words, I knew I had to call her and pass on the news.

It was one of those conversations you hope never to have.

We decided not to share that detail with our parents.

At that time, they were in their early eighties. When COVID began spreading, we moved them to stay with our eldest sister so they would be safe. While that gave us some peace of mind, it also meant we had a close view of their anxiety.

But even when we chose to carry the weight of that secret ourselves, they were already worried enough. Even without hearing the 'worst-case warnings', they understood the gravity of the situation.

In those moments, stuck between a truth we couldn't tell and a future we couldn't see, I often found myself returning to a familiar verse:

And ask we did.

Prayer held us together during those weeks.

Our family has always been deeply rooted in faith. My father is a retired pastor, and prayer has long been the language we turn to in difficult seasons. During that time, we prayed individually and sometimes together over Zoom. We had family devotionals across screens and time zones.

We prayed for my sister's recovery.

But we also prayed for strength: for her partner who was facing this ordeal up close, for the relatives and friends who were supporting them in London, and for ourselves as we waited helplessly from afar.

And in our prayers, there was always the quiet acknowledgment that while we could ask and hope, the final outcome was never ours to determine.

"Your will be done" was not an easy prayer to say, but it was the only honest one we could offer.

Waiting for updates was perhaps the hardest part. Each message from London carried both hope and fear.

During the lowest moments, I found myself going back to the chat messages my sister and I had exchanged when she was still able to respond. I had tried to keep her spirits up, sending funny anecdotes or small encouraging videos whenever I could.

Sometimes I would reread her replies, wondering if those words might end up being the last messages I would ever receive from her.

Still, we kept hoping she had more to say.

Then, slowly, things began to change.

Her condition stabilized. The doctors were able to begin weaning her off the ventilator. Not long after that, we received the news we had been praying for: she could be out of the intensive unit within a few days.

For us, it felt nothing short of a miracle.

In total, she spent about three weeks in the hospital.

When she was finally moved to the ward, some of her nurse friends sent us short video clips of her. We still couldn't speak with her directly at that point, but just seeing her awake again brought a kind of relief that is difficult to describe.

Her recovery was slow but steady. It would take many months before she could return to work — nearly eight in all — but step by step, she regained her strength.

Looking back now, that season left us with a deeper awareness of something we often say but rarely feel as clearly as we did then: there are no guarantees in life.

Health, time, and the people we love are all gifts that can never be taken for granted.

Our middle sister, the one who endured all of this, has always been dearly loved in our family. She has long poured her affection into her nieces and nephews, spoiling them as if they were her own.

She has also been the one who delighted in treating our parents, encouraging them to travel and enjoy life after so many years of working hard to raise us.

Seeing how close we came to losing her reminded us just how precious those relationships truly are.

Looking back, we realized that during those long weeks there was very little we could do from afar. In the end, the only thing we could really do was pray.

And sometimes, prayer is not about finding the right words. It is about holding on to faith when circumstances give you every reason to fear.

Those weeks taught us to be grateful not just for extraordinary moments of healing, but for the ordinary gift of another day.

Another conversation. Another message. Another chance to say the things we might otherwise leave unsaid.

Perhaps this, too, is one of life's everyday mercies: the reminder that every day we are given together is already a gift.