Anna: A Life of Faithful Waiting

 

2022 South wall of the temple, Israel

There are seasons when it feels like the promises of God are slow in coming. Days turn into years, prayers go unanswered, and hope begins to fade. Yet in the quiet corners of Scripture, there stands a woman whose steadfast faith reminds us that God never forgets His own.

Her name was Anna, a prophetess, a widow, and a woman who never stopped waiting for redemption.

And there was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived with her husband seven years from when she was a virgin, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She did not depart from the temple, worshiping with fasting and prayer night and day.
— Luke 2:36–37, ESV

Anna’s story begins with sorrow. She had known love and companionship for only seven years before her husband died. In the culture of her time, a woman’s security and place in society were often tied to her husband. Yet instead of growing bitter or retreating into despair, Anna devoted herself completely to God.

She became a fixture in the temple courts of Jerusalem, a place of constant worship, prayer, and waiting. Luke tells us she “did not depart from the temple,” suggesting that she made her home in the presence of God.

Her tribe — Asher, one of Israel’s lesser-known northern tribes — had once been associated with prosperity and blessing (Genesis 49:20). Yet by Anna’s time, those northern tribes were scattered. Still, she remained steadfast — a remnant of faithfulness amid a fading world.

And coming up at that very hour she began to give thanks to God and to speak of him to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.
— Luke 2:38, ESV

For decades, Anna prayed for the coming of the Messiah — the promised Redeemer who would rescue Israel and bring light to all nations. She waited through silence, through Roman occupation, through personal loss. Yet she never stopped believing.

Then, one ordinary day, the extraordinary happened.

Mary and Joseph entered the temple with their infant son, Jesus, to fulfill the law of Moses and dedicate Him to the Lord. There, an elderly man named Simeon held the child in his arms and declared that his eyes had seen God’s salvation (Luke 2:25–32).

And at that same moment, Anna appeared.

Her long years of fasting and prayer suddenly culminated in the sight of the Savior she had longed for.

Imagine Anna’s heart in that instant — the years of loneliness melting into joy. She had spent her life in quiet obedience, and now she stood face to face with the promise fulfilled.

She didn’t keep the moment to herself. Luke tells us she immediately began to praise God and to speak of Jesus to all who were waiting for redemption.

Anna’s joy overflowed into witness. She became one of the first evangelists of the newborn Christ — a woman proclaiming salvation to those who still hoped for God’s deliverance.

In the first-century Jewish world, widows were among the most vulnerable. Many depended on family or the generosity of others for survival. Yet Anna lived boldly counter to her culture.

She chose worship over worry, devotion over despair, and presence in God’s house over comfort in her own.

Her life reminds us that faithfulness isn’t measured by what we achieve, but by whom we trust.

While others hurried through life, Anna remained in the stillness of the temple — fasting, praying, and trusting that the God who promised would be faithful to fulfill.

Anna’s story is just three verses long, yet her faith echoes through centuries. She teaches us that:

1. God sees the ones who wait. Even in the quiet and hidden seasons, God is working.

2. Loss does not end our purpose. Anna’s widowhood became a doorway to deeper worship, not despair.

3. Faith grows stronger in stillness. She wasn’t striving — she was abiding.

4. God’s timing is always perfect. After decades of waiting, Anna saw the very face of redemption.

We, too, live in a world that longs for redemption — a culture searching for peace, yet running in every direction except toward God.

Like Anna, we may find ourselves in seasons of waiting, disappointment, or change. Perhaps the dreams we once held are no longer possible. Maybe the help we once relied on is gone. In those moments, it’s easy to feel forgotten.

But Anna’s life whispers to us: Keep praying. Keep watching. Keep worshiping.

God is never late. His promises may unfold slowly, but they are sure.

The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.
— Lamentations 3:25, ESV

Sometimes I find myself like Anna — standing in a season that feels like waiting. I look back at dreams that have faded and forward at promises yet to come. It’s easy to grow restless, to want to fix things on my own, or to feel unseen.

But then I remember Anna — her quiet strength, her unshakable faith, her constant worship. She reminds me that the long years are never wasted when they are spent in the presence of God.

And one day, like Anna, every believer will see the promise fulfilled — not in a temple, but in the eternal presence of the Savior we have loved and waited for.

When The Oil is Almost......

There comes a quiet, terrifying moment when life shifts from someday to soon.

Not announced by trumpets or diagnoses alone, but by a deep, inward knowing. A slowing. A narrowing. The realization that the years ahead may now be counted not in decades, but in months… maybe a single turning of the calendar.

It is a strange thing to stand at the edge of time and look backward and forward at once.

Looking back, everything feels heavier. The good shines brighter than it ever did when it was happening—laughter around tables, ordinary mornings, the sound of voices that once filled the house. At the same time, the broken places ache louder. Regrets that once whispered now speak plainly. Words never said. Apologies delayed too long. Time wasted on things that never mattered as much as we pretended they did.

There is mourning in this reckoning.

We grieve not only what was lost, but what never came to be. The dreams that stayed dreams. The version of ourselves we meant to become. The relationships we assumed we would one day fix.

And then there is death—no longer a distant idea, but a presence. A face you must finally look at without flinching.

Surprisingly, it is not only fear that lives there.

There is also clarity.

When time grows short, false hopes lose their shine. The frantic bargaining quiets. The need to control outcomes loosens its grip. What remains is a fierce resolve: whatever time is left will not be wasted pretending tomorrow is guaranteed.

What remains is love.

It shows up in unexpected, ordinary flashes.

The sound of grandchildren laughing so hard they can’t catch their breath. Sticky fingers grabbing mine. Small arms wrapping around my neck as if I am the safest place in the world. The way their laughter feels like medicine and grief all at once—joy so full it almost hurts because I know how fast moments turn into memories.

It shows up in watching my children become adults.

I remember when I could fix everything with a kiss or a rule. Now I watch from a distance as they make choices—some wise, some painful—and learn lessons I cannot spare them from. I see their strength forming in the very places I once wanted to shield them. I see them stumble, stand back up, and become who they are meant to be without my constant guidance.

There is pride there. And heartbreak. And humility.

Loving them now means trusting what I planted, even when I don’t get to see the harvest. It means releasing control and believing that God is still writing their stories long after I am gone.

If life is narrowing, then let it narrow toward these moments. Sitting longer on the floor instead of rushing past it. Listening more than correcting. Letting laughter interrupt grief. Choosing presence over productivity.

Leaving behind not perfection, but love that was felt.

This is where faith becomes painfully real.

Scripture tells the story of a widow in Zarephath during a devastating famine. She had reached the end—just a handful of flour and a little oil. Enough for one final meal before death would come for her and her son. When the prophet Elijah asked her to give first from what little she had, it sounded unreasonable, even cruel.

But God met her at the edge.

The promise was not abundance stored away. There was no overflowing barn, no visible surplus. Instead, there was enough. Day after day. Meal after meal. The oil did not run out. The flour did not fail.

God gave her what she needed—but not more.

And maybe that is one of the hardest lessons at the end of life.

We want excess. Certainty. Extra time. Extra strength. Extra answers.

But God often offers daily provision instead of long-range guarantees. Grace sufficient for today. Strength measured for now. Hope that does not erase death, but carries us through it.

Standing here, with the oil running low, I am learning that this is not abandonment. It is intimacy.

God is still in control—even when control slips from our hands. He is still faithful—even when outcomes feel unresolved. He is still good—even when the miracle looks like endurance instead of escape.

If this is the last season, then let it be honest. Let it be gentle. Let it be generous.

Let it be marked by love poured out, not hoarded. By faith exercised, not explained away. By peace that does not come from having more time, but from trusting the One who holds time itself.

Like the widow, I may not see tomorrow’s supply today.

But I see the God who sustains it.

And for now—for this day—that is enough.

1 Kings 17:13-16 ESV

And Elijah said to her, “Do not fear; go and do as you have said. But first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterward make something for yourself and your son. For thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, ‘The jar of flour shall not be spent, and the jug of oil shall not be empty, until the day that the LORD sends rain upon the earth.’” And she went and did as Elijah said. And she and he and her household ate for many days. The jar of flour was not spent, neither did the jug of oil become empty, according to the word of the LORD that he spoke by Elijah.