For years, Habakkuk 2:3 was my verse.
If it seems slow in coming, wait patiently.
I found it in Guatemala in 2012 during a season when I desperately wanted to know what God was doing with my life. It became a reminder that even when my future felt uncertain to me, it wasn’t uncertain to Him.
And sitting right above it all those years was another verse:
“Write the vision; make it plain…” — Habakkuk 2:2
I knew it was there.
But somewhere around 2023 or 2024, it started to mean something different.
I was deep in the trenches of writing Raising a Boaz, a book about raising Jake and the things God taught me through being his mother. Guatemala was part of that story.
More than a decade after living through a season when I had been desperately trying to understand what God was doing, I was sitting down to write about it.
And suddenly:
Write the vision. Make it plain.
For years, I had held onto the next verse as a reminder to wait. Trust God with what I couldn’t see. Believe there was an appointed time even when I didn’t understand the timing.
Now the verse before it seemed to be asking something of me.
Write it.
Put words to it.
Tell the story.
Those two verses have become almost inseparable for me. One reminds me there are seasons when my job is to trust God with what I cannot see. The other reminds me that sometimes, after I’ve lived through it, my job is to write down what He showed me there.
Somewhere along the way, Habakkuk 2:2 even ended up in my social media bio.
I thought I understood why.
Then, fourteen years after Guatemala, Habakkuk came back through the same person who had been sitting beside me when this whole story began.
Jake told me his Bible study group had chosen its next book.
Habakkuk.
We both immediately understood the significance.
But the person who chose it couldn’t possibly have known.
She didn’t know about Guatemala or the two homesick people sitting together reading Habakkuk. She didn’t know 2:3 had become the verse I carried through years of waiting and uncertainty. She didn’t know that 2:2 would eventually become part of my calling as a writer.
She just chose Habakkuk.
And I love that.
I don’t need every moment like this to mean God is sending me some new message or telling me what’s going to happen next.
Sometimes, I think He simply lets us look back.
And when I look back, I can see the thread.
A young mother in Guatemala who didn’t know what came next. A boy who jokingly called it “hay-bike-ck” and then sat beside her while they read it. A verse that taught me to wait. Another verse that, years later, told this writer to write. A blog post I had almost forgotten.
And now that boy is a man, building a community and faith of his own, and Habakkuk has found its way into his life again.
So when I say there are Scriptures that have become woven into the very fabric of who I am, this is what I mean.
Scripture hasn’t been separate from my life. It has met me in my life.
In the waiting. In the uncertainty. In the writing. In the becoming.
Fourteen years later, I’m still doing what Habakkuk 2:2 tells me to do.
Writing the vision. Making it plain.
And I’m still learning to trust the very next verse:
If it seems slow in coming, wait patiently.