The Palm Tree Is Not a Delay

Lately, I've been walking through a season I don't know how else to describe except as a pause. Not a stop. Not a loss of direction. Just a slowing. A holy exhale. The kind where you're still moving forward, but you're moving with your hands open instead of clenched.

I'm waiting on God's words right now. Not because He's silent, but because I want to hear Him clearly. I'm holding tightly to His promises—some I've already seen fulfilled, others I'm still trusting Him for—and I'm learning how to sit in the tension of already and not yet without rushing either one. This season feels quieter on the outside, but inwardly it's tender and alive. My spirit feels alert, aware, and deeply sensitive to what God is doing beneath the surface.

In this pause, I've noticed something unexpected: the voices I'm drawn to in Scripture have shifted. I'm not reaching for stories of movement, visible victory, or dramatic breakthrough. I keep returning to the ones marked by stillness. Waiting. Listening. And again and again, my heart has been led back to Deborah.

I've studied her before. She's always been one of my favorites—her leadership, her faith, her obedience, the way she carried authority without force. Her story has encouraged me for years. But this time, it feels different. This time, it isn't stirring excitement as much as it's stirring recognition. This time, Deborah isn't calling me to do more—she's inviting me to be more attentive. To notice how she stayed rooted in God's presence while she waited. How she didn't rush toward influence but sat with Him, trusted His timing, and listened before she led.

There's a tenderness to how she appears in Scripture that I hadn't noticed before. Before the battle. Before the command. Before the song of victory. She's simply there—sitting under the palm tree. Present. Available. Anchored. Listening.

And that detail has been lingering with me.

A prophetic calling doesn't begin with speaking. It begins with stillness. With surrender. With clarity. With intimacy with God. With the courage to hear. With the willingness to obey.

Deborah didn't chase her mission. The mission came to her once she was anchored under the palm tree.

Scripture doesn't first introduce Deborah as a judge, a leader, or a prophet. It shows her sitting. Waiting. Listening. Judges 4:5 tells us she sat under the palm of Deborah, and the people came to her for counsel. Her authority didn't come from striving—it flowed from presence. From faithfulness in the quiet. From a life attentive to God.

That feels significant to me right now.

This season of pause isn't silence—it's preparation. It's God refining discernment, sharpening spiritual sensitivity, and anchoring the heart before asking it to lead. It's the place where hearing becomes clear before speaking is required. Where obedience is formed before instruction is given.

Deborah's public leadership flowed out of private obedience. Her clarity was born in stillness. Her courage was shaped in intimacy with God. And the authority she carried was marked by peace, not pressure.

That's what resonates so deeply in this season.

A prophet isn't defined by volume or spectacle. A prophet is someone attentive to God's voice, stirred by His heart, sensitive to injustice, and willing to speak clarity into confusion when the time comes. Deborah wasn't dramatic or performative. She was grounded. Steady. Accurate.

And she lifted others.

She lifted Barak when he hesitated. She lifted a weary nation back into alignment. She lifted women into worship. She lifted courage where fear had settled.

Her calling wasn't about being seen—it was about being faithful. And that kind of leadership doesn't rush. It waits until God says, "Arise."

That's why this pause feels sacred. Not stagnant. Not delayed. Just… held.

If Deborah's story keeps drawing you back, it may not be because you're meant to act yet, but because you're meant to share her posture. Sitting under your own palm tree. Listening. Letting God speak before you speak. Letting Him define the timing before you move.

There is a calm authority that only comes from God. It doesn't strive. It doesn't push. It doesn't announce itself. It simply knows when to rise.

This pause isn't the absence of calling. It's the place where calling is clarified.

And when God speaks—when He finally says, "Arise"—the peace, the strength, and the clarity will already be there. Because they were formed in the quiet.

For now, sitting is enough. Listening is enough. Waiting is faithful.

Maybe this is the invitation for all of us—to stop measuring faith by what we produce, and start noticing how we walk with God while we wait.

The palm tree is not a delay. It's the beginning.