I have a habit of making meaning out of ordinary moments. It is something of a daily discipline, looking at the small, unremarkable events of life and asking what they might be trying to teach me. Some days the lessons are quiet. Other days they arrive with the force of a revelation.
This particular morning began like most school-run mornings in Accra, full of the usual organised chaos, the hurry, the traffic, and the familiar negotiation between where you need to be and how quickly the road will let you get there.
We were on our way to drop the children off at school. My husband was driving. I was in the passenger seat doing what passengers in Accra traffic do, watching the road and quietly forming opinions about everyone else on it.
Ahead of us was a slow-moving vehicle. Not dangerously slow. Just the kind of slow that makes you aware of every second ticking by when you are trying to beat a traffic light. The light was red when we joined the queue, but there were only a few cars ahead of us. When it turned green, the car in front moved, but not with any urgency. By the time we reached the intersection, the light had turned red again. The slow car had made it through. We had not.
I will be honest with you. I was not far from a tantrum.
My husband, however, was perfectly calm. He sat behind the wheel, unbothered, and waited. And something about his stillness arrested mine. I thought, if he is not upset, what exactly am I upset about? His peace became, almost involuntarily, my peace. We sat together in that small red-light moment and simply waited.
When the light turned green again, we were first in line. And the road ahead of us was completely clear.
Every car that had been in front of us had long since disappeared into the distance. The road that had been congested just minutes before was now open. Wide. Unobstructed. We flew.
I caught a revelation in that moment, and I have been sitting with it ever since.
When you are at a standstill, when something you cannot control has slowed you down or stopped you entirely, it is almost never a punishment. It is often preparation. God sees what is ahead. He knows the road you cannot see from where you are sitting. Sometimes the delay is not an obstacle to your journey. It is the clearing of the path so that when you do move, you move without friction, without hindrance, without the slow-moving thing that would have kept you crawling all the way to your destination.
The stop was not the problem. The stop was the gift.
Patience is described in scripture as a fruit of the Spirit, and like all fruit, it does not arrive without a season of waiting. And perhaps that is because patience is not passive. It is an act of trust. It is the decision to believe that the one who sees further than you do is working something out on your behalf, even when, especially when, you cannot see it yourself.
The next time life stops you at a red light, whether literally or otherwise, settle into it. Trust that the road being cleared ahead of you right now is worth every second you spent at the light. Your moment is coming. And when it does, the road will be open.