None of It Was Wasted

A Reflection on the Gospel for Sunday, August 10th, 2025:
​Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

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Luke
​12.35-40

“Be dressed for action and have your lamps lit; be like those who are waiting for their master to return from the wedding banquet, so that they may open the door for him as soon as he comes and knocks. Blessed are those slaves whom the master finds alert when he comes; truly I tell you, he will fasten his belt and have them sit down to eat, and he will come and serve them. If he comes during the middle of the night, or near dawn, and finds them so, blessed are those slaves.

“But know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

“You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.””

Jesus doesn’t ask for perfection. He asks for readiness: a heart that stays soft in a world that hardens; a soul that still hopes, even after disappointment; a lamp that flickers in the dark but doesn’t go out.

And on some nights, we do feel like we’re burning out, exhausted, unnoticed, unseen. We wonder if the waiting even matters, if He’s really coming, if anything will change.

But this Gospel isn’t about fear. It’s about a God who returns to find us watching and says, “Now let Me serve you.” The One we’ve been waiting for kneels down, wraps the towel, and begins to heal all that became broken while we waited.

He saw the prayers you whispered at midnight.

He saw the tears you cried while smiling for everyone else.

He saw you show up when no one clapped, no one thanked you, no one even knew.

And when He comes, He won’t say, “Why didn’t you do more?” He’ll say, “You didn’t stop loving. You stayed awake. You waited for Me. And I never left you.”

And in that moment — when the ache lifts, when you see His face, when every part of you finally exhales — you’ll know: none of it was wasted. Not the waiting. Not the weeping. Not a single act of love in the dark.



​Theresa Langley

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