⏳Waiting with Hope: Nothing is Wasted
Praying when life doesn't look like what you thought it would.
What does it look like to hold space for hope when your prayers go unanswered?
I’m so grateful that my friend, poet and author
, is vulnerably sharing about waiting with hope with us today. Tanner is the author of multiple books, including Walk A Little Slower and the brand-new kids’ book All the Things I Say to God.No matter what you’re holding, these words will help you remember the One who holds you. I’m grateful for the reminder that hope, like prayer, changes us.
I’m at a coffee shop in Nashville, digging through my backpack, trying to find my headphones. It seems like something is always misplaced. I managed to find nine pens, a Rice Krispies Treat with a long-passed expiration date, and a charging cable for a computer I no longer have.
But no headphones.
After a few minutes of searching, I gave up and let the noise of the shop fill my ears. Before long, two women in their thirties sat down at the table next to me. They began a conversation I had been part of hundreds of times. For the next 45 minutes, I listened as they counseled each other through the heaviness of life not turning out the way they thought it would.
“I’m 32 and life looks nothing like I thought it would,” one of them said, her hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee. “What did you think it would look like?” asked the woman across from her.
“Married. Kids. A house. I didn’t think I was asking God for too much. I’m just wondering where I went wrong.” “I feel that,” she replied. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted a family, but that just hasn’t happened.”
“It just feels like something is wrong with me.”
I’ve had that thought too.
In 2021, just as the world was beginning to emerge from the pandemic, my wife and I were diagnosed with unexplained infertility.
When the doctor said those words, I felt like something had been stolen from me. For months, the phrase echoed in my mind. Unexplained infertility. Unexplained infertility. Unexplained infertility. It seeped into my body, adding weight to my nervous system. Stress and worry worked together to keep me awake at night and distracted during the day. That diagnosis changed the way I saw myself, how I moved through the world, and how I imagined the future.
Why? How?
This is all I could pray.
When others shared that they too had been given the same diagnosis, I felt relieved.
There’s comfort in knowing your pain doesn’t need an explanation.
People who understand your grief, your questions, your frustrations—they become your people. A bond formed through unspoken pain. Maybe that’s what the two women next to me were experiencing.
They had the same look in their eyes that I’ve had in mine: tired and hopeful, with a hint of sorrow. I no longer felt alone in my wondering. When I asked God, “Why?” and “How?” it felt like I was joining a choir of the concerned, singing a song of lament with faith woven through the notes.
What do we do while we wait?
What do we do while we hold grief?
What do we do when life doesn’t look like we thought it would?
What do we do when we don’t know what to do?
Some channel their grief into fitness or baking bread.
Some get lost in bitterness. Others become birdwatchers.
Some turn to screens. Others start businesses.
I wrote.
English poet John Keats famously said, “All writing is a form of prayer.”
Franz Kafka said, “Writing is prayer.”
Thomas Merton said, "Learn how to meditate on paper."
C.S. Lewis said, “I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God. It changes me.”
I feel the same way about writing. For me, writing and prayer belong together. The page is where I confess, give thanks, dream, and grieve.
So I kept writing.
My wife and I entered the adoption process, and I kept writing.
I went to see a counselor and I kept writing.
I showed up at church on Sundays and I kept writing.
I walked the dog, cleaned the house, mowed the lawn—and kept writing.
I got out of bed each day and kept writing.
I carried on. I prayed. I wrote. I began to blend the two.
I brought my grief and trust, hope and doubt, pain and peace to the page. I didn’t try to silence my emotions or soften my questions. I simply brought what I had and wrote what I knew. That’s how I prayed, too.
As it turns out, I can only pray with what I have. During this season, I unexpectedly wrote a children’s book titled All the Things I Say to God.
It’s a story about a little girl named Abby who begins to pray on her own. She knows how to pray before meals and at church, but one day, she asks her mom, “Can I pray to God all by myself?”
That question launches her on a journey of faith. She learns to express gratitude, ask questions, pray for others, and use silence to connect with God.
As I wrote the book, the heaviness inside me began to lift. Odd as it sounds, Abby taught me that I could talk to God about anything, anywhere, at any time.
So I did.
Day after day, I spent time in prayer.
On car rides, I turned off the radio and spoke to God.
In the mornings, while walking the dog, I spoke to God.
I set a daily alarm for 11:14 a.m. to remind me to pray.
In the evenings, I prayed in the shower, and again when my head hit the pillow.
And I kept writing.
Some prayers were spoken. Others were silent. Many were written. Slowly, life began to feel less like a burden and more like a blessing. I stopped feeling like my life was over. In many ways, I felt like I was just beginning.
I can’t fully explain it.
“Even though it seems like there isn’t hope, there is. This time isn’t being wasted,” Said one of the girls. I perked up and smiled. Her words were true. I knew them firsthand.
Hope remains. Nothing is wasted.
I didn’t want to believe that when I heard the words unexplained infertility.
I didn’t want to believe that when I was at my lowest.
I didn’t want to believe that when life felt heavy and hollow.
But now, a few years later, this is what I know:
Hope moves into the mess and makes a way forward.
Hope holds grief and helps us endure the waves of pain.
Hope sits with us in the storm and helps clean up the wreckage.
Hope, like prayer, changes us.
Hope pulls up a chair and reminds us that none of this is wasted.
Not the grief.
Not the pain.
Not the questions.
In seasons of sorrow and uncertainty, it often feels like hope is far away and that life is meaningless.
But God knew.
Before my wife and I were diagnosed with unexplained infertility...
Before we started the adoption process...
Before we wondered if things would ever get better...
Before we received the phone call that changed our lives...
Before we held our son for the first time...
Before I wrote All the Things I Say to God…
Before I sat down to write this...
God knew.
In His kindness, waiting is not wasted.
In His compassion, grief is not wasted.
In His faithfulness, prayer is not wasted.
It all matters to the One who holds all things.
Discover more of Tanner’s work at writtentospeak.com.
Get the Book
All the Things I Say to God explores the profound world of prayer and shows children that heartfelt conversations with God can occur anywhere, anytime, and about anything.
It releases April 29 and as you know, preorders make such a huge difference to authors. (I may or may not1 have teared up the first time I read it!)
About the book: Abby has been praying with her parents for as long as she can remember. They pray together before meals and before bed, on good days and tough days. Then one day Abby asks a simple question: “Mom, can I pray to God all by myself?”
Follow Abby on her journey of faith as she discovers how to express her gratitude, ask questions, pray for others, and use silence to communicate with God. Led by her own curiosity, she finds out that you can pray for anything and everything—God’s love knows no bounds.
About Tanner
Known for his heartfelt and hopeful voice, he travels the country sharing poetry and stories that weave together grace, humor, and faith. His work has been described as “hopefully unique and inviting,” offering a fresh perspective on life’s complexities with honesty and curiosity.
Year of Breath
The paid edition of Year of Breath is here to meet you in the waiting.
When you keep reading, you’ll find:
Daily breath prayers to ground you through the week
Guided reflection prompts to help you take a minute to breathe & reset
A playlist for waiting in hope, curated by Tanner Olson (He lives in Nashville so I obviously trust his music picks.)
New fill-in-the-blank prayer template for when words are hard to find
A phone wallpaper to carry peace in your pocket
A couple of Scripture passages to meditate on through the week
A benediction to bless you in the in-between
A private comment space to share and connect with others
You don’t have to journey alone. Join us in the quiet, where hope still breathes.
Breath Prayer
Monday
INHALE: I bring my ache to You.
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