I kept a notebook in a hospital bag for fourteen months. It has appointment times, medication names, and a song.
I did not write the song in one sitting because I did not have one sitting. I wrote a line on the days I could and I closed the book on the days I could not.
What surprised me was where God was in it. I had expected Him at the outcome, waiting at the end like a result. Instead He was in the chair beside me, in the ordinary hours, in the vending machine corridor at four in the afternoon.
There is a line in the song that was the turn for me: I thought waiting meant You were away. That was the whole of my theology for a decade, and it was wrong.
The season ended. Not every season does, and I am careful how I tell this, because I have friends whose waiting has not resolved and my story is not a promise to them.
So when I recorded it, I left the final chord unresolved. It is not a mistake. It is for the people still in the chair.
