The Bench by the Pond.

God told me to go and sit.

It wasn’t loud. No thunder or shaking walls. Just a soft, still nudge early in the morning at 5:28. I woke up with a sound playing in my head…. a tune I couldn’t quite place but it kept bugging me. I prayed at 6. Had a chat with Mummy. And while we were talking, the sound kept looping in the back of my mind like a song that won’t be quiet until it’s been sung.

At around 8:46, I decided. I was going to get up, have a shower, and get dressed nicely. I wasn’t sure why. I just knew I had to obey. Even if it felt a little silly.

I started brushing my hair- this stubborn, beautiful African hair that simply will not be tamed. I added some coconut oil and clipped it into place as best as I could. There’s something quietly radical about showing up for what God says, even when you don’t understand it.

I made my way to Ropner Park and arrived at exactly 11:11. That number struck me like a whisper of confirmation. And I asked the Lord, “When can I leave?” He said, “At exactly 1 p.m.”

So I carried on.

As I entered, He said, “Turn left.”

I did.

A woman was walking toward me and He said, “Wait. Let her pass.” I waited. She passed.

Then He said, “Turn right.”

And there it was- a bench by one of the small ponds leading to the river where the swans are. That’s where I sat.

I stayed there the whole time.

And I waited.

I watched the day unfold around me. There were a couple of mothers and their toddlers, a few dog walkers, and some dogs sniffing curiously at everything like it was their first time outside. A group of what I assumed were support workers and their patients strolled past — quiet, slow, careful. And then, there was a strange sight. A man, maybe a grandpa, all dressed in black, pushing a pram with a baby inside. That image stayed with me for some reason. He didn’t look around. Just passed right through the moment.

But me? I was still. I was waiting for someone.

Someone I hadn’t seen in seven years.

I was told they would come. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. I believed it with everything in me. I imagined our reunion over and over again. I pictured him walking up to me, surprised but smiling. I pictured us talking, laughing. I was absolutely sure. I felt like my heart was preparing itself for the joy of that moment. Have you ever been so sure of something that your whole body leans into it?

I was that sure.

But as the clock crept toward 11:53, something in me started to change. A quiet ache. A sinking feeling. Maybe… maybe he’s not coming. Maybe I had a wild trip in my head and I don’t know where it came from.

I was really sad.

At some point, I saw a crow. It landed in a tree nearby and let out this loud, startling call — loud enough that a couple walking past looked up to see what it was. It made me think of him. Of the one I was hoping to see. And for a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could somehow see me through that crow’s eyes.

The park van drove past again. And I started to feel like I was being watched. Not in a frightening way — more like observed. Quietly. Gently. As if heaven was near.

And still, I waited.

The clouds were darkening now and it looked like rain. And I wouldn’t normally be out in that kind of weather unless I was absolutely sure I needed to be. But I stayed.

Because I had been told to.

At 12:53, I looked at the time and said in my heart, “If he doesn’t come by 1 o’clock, I’ll leave.”

And 1 o’clock came.

I stood up and I left.

Still no one.

No miracle. No reunion. No explanation.

But I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t bitter.

Because just as I began to walk away, I heard it in my spirit so clearly:

"You deserve someone who is strong.

You deserve someone who shows up when they say they will.

You deserve someone who will go to war for you and win every single time.

So let him go.

Let this be the last time you wait for him."

I walked out of the park with a still heart.

I arrived home at exactly 13:47.

Not just home to my flat but home to peace. Home to myself. Home to God.

I sat with it all. I didn’t rush the sadness away. I felt it. I let it breathe.

But then something wild happened. Around 4 o’clock, as I was on my way to the shop to buy food for the weekend, this sudden wave of joy just rushed over me. I don’t know where it came from, but it was deep and bright and real.

I started singing. Praising. Laughing out loud to God.

I danced up the steps like a woman who had just been rescued. I sang through the aisles in the supermarket. I didn’t care who saw me. I didn’t care who heard me. I was full. Not because I got what I hoped for. But because I obeyed.

I came home and had the most beautiful worship session. From 4:15 to 5:45, I just worshipped. No noise. No chaos. Just God and me in a room filled with praise.

And that’s when I realized obedience has very little to do with outcomes. It has everything to do with surrender. You go where He says go. You sit where He says sit. You wait when He says wait. You leave when He says leave.

And when you do?

Sometimes the miracle is not that someone walks toward you.

Sometimes the miracle is that you walk away still singing.