Here, Yet Longed For – Waiting, Yet Responding

There is a holy tension woven into every step of the believer’s walk: God is here, yet we still cry out for Him to come. We are filled with the Holy Spirit, yet we pause in sacred stillness, waiting to receive. We are seated with Christ in heavenly places, and yet we stand on trembling knees, longing for His touch, listening for His whisper. This paradox is not confusion—it is communion. It is the heartbeat of a people who know the nearness of God and still yearn for deeper glory.

Yeshua promised, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20, NASB). His presence is not a fleeting emotion or a rare visitation; it is an unshakable truth. He is the indwelling King, the One who lives in us through His Spirit. And yet, the cry of the Bride has never ceased: “Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20). We do not cry out because He has left us—we cry because our hearts burn for the fullness of His reign. We carry both the fire of His presence and the ache of His return. We are lovers caught in the tension of already and not yet.

In the quiet morning hours, we wait—not as beggars, but as children with open hands. We are not pleading for the Spirit to visit as a guest; we are welcoming Him as Lord. The Spirit does not merely come upon us; He abides within us (John 14:17). But abiding does not cancel out pursuit. Presence does not negate hunger. In fact, it deepens it. To truly know God is to want more of Him. To experience His nearness is to be undone by His holiness and cry out, “Let me see Your glory!” as Moses did (Exodus 33:18).

This is the mystery of The Presence—He is here, and yet we seek. We are filled, and yet we thirst. This is not double-mindedness; it is devotion. It is the heart that refuses to settle for the outer courts when the veil has been torn. It is the spirit that says, “Thank You, Lord,” and “Come, Lord,” in the same breath. To wait on the Lord is not inactivity; it is posture. It is listening with the ears of the heart and responding with readiness.

I’ve found myself in that place more than once during worship. A moment comes where the air changes—where the room stills, and I feel as if Yeshua Himself just passed by my side. It’s not imagination. It’s not emotion. It’s Presence. My heart reaches out, desperate to hold onto Him, to catch Him, to remain in that moment. I stretch toward Him—not with hands, but with spirit—and still, He slips just beyond reach. Not out of cruelty, but invitation. He stirs my hunger so I will seek Him more. He walks by not to tease me, but to awaken my pursuit.

Elijah stood on the mountain, waiting for God. The wind came, but the Lord was not in it. The earthquake shook, but still, He was not there. Then came the still, small voice (1 Kings 19:11–12). That whisper was not absence; it was intimacy. To know The Presence is to slow down enough to hear the whisper and be still enough to recognize the weight of glory.

We stand in worship not to awaken God, but to awaken ourselves. We listen not to earn His presence, but to align with it. The Church must learn again how to wait—not as those abandoned, but as those expected to move when He speaks. Like the priests who stood still in the Jordan while the people passed through, or the servants at Cana who filled jars before they knew why, we are called to obey even when we don’t understand. The Presence moves with those who are willing to respond.

The Presence is not a mood. It is a Person. He is not summoned by music or stirred by emotional theatrics. He is drawn to humility, hunger, and holiness. And He is already here. The question is not, “Will He come?” but rather, “Will we notice, and will we respond?”

Beloved, this is the posture of a people who know their God: waiting without wavering, listening without rushing, worshiping without distraction, and obeying without delay. The Presence is here. The Spirit lives within you. But the measure of your awareness determines the depth of your response. He stands at the door and knocks. Not because He is far—but because He is kind. He wants to be welcomed, not merely acknowledged.

So we say, “Come, Lord,” not from absence, but from adoration. We wait—not because He delays, but because we trust His timing. We stand—not to impress Him, but to align with Him. We listen—not because He is silent, but because His voice is worth every ounce of our attention.

And when He speaks, we move.

Prayer

A Cry for the Fullness of His Presence

Abba Father,

In the name of Yeshua, I bow low before You. I lay down every agenda, every distraction, every false comfort, and I lift my heart in holy surrender. I do not seek what Your hand can give—I seek Your face. I long not for blessings, but for The Presence of God, the nearness of Your glory that transforms everything it touches.

King of Majesty,

I confess: You are here. You dwell within me by Your Spirit. But I cry out for more—not because You are absent, but because I have not yielded all. Burn away every barrier I have built. Tear down every idol I have entertained. Let there be no room in me untouched by Your holiness.

Yeshua, my Bridegroom and King,

I want to walk with You as Enoch walked. I want to host Your presence as David did—undignified in worship, unshaken in trust, unrelenting in pursuit. Let the fear of the Lord mark my steps. Let the oil of intimacy flow from my life. Make me a living altar, a burning lampstand, a ready vessel.

Holy Spirit,

I submit my time, my thoughts, my strength, my affections—all of it. Teach me to wait without impatience, to listen without assumption, to respond without delay. May my ears be tuned to Your whisper and my soul quick to obey. Set a fire in my bones that only Your presence can sustain.

I declare by faith: Your presence is my portion, my pursuit, and my prize. Let nothing satisfy me but more of You. Let my life echo one cry—“Come, Lord, dwell in me fully and reign through me completely.”

In the name of Yeshua,

Amen.

See Also

• Speak, Lord, for Your Servant is Listening
• Listening Prayer: Tuning Your Heart to God’s Voice
• Deep Listening
• God Knows You
• Strength Is Found in the Gaze

The Vision (for the seekers)

The One Who Walks Among the Lampstands

A Companion to “The Presence”

I stood in worship, hands lifted, heart burning, when the atmosphere shifted. The room was still, but something eternal began to move. The air thickened—rich, like frankincense mingled with rain. It was the kind of stillness that makes you forget your surroundings and remember your soul.

Then—I saw Him.

He walked among golden lampstands, their flames alive and unyielding. No smoke, just fire—pure and holy. The scent of burning oil and sacred history lingered in the air. Each flame seemed to bow as He passed, and though He moved with quiet authority, every step reverberated through the floor like thunder sealed in mercy.

His eyes were not just aflame—they were alive. They searched, they saw, they pierced and healed. His robe flowed like light through water, and across His chest was the golden sash of a High Priest. I knew in that moment: this was the One who walks among the churches. The One from Revelation. The Lord Himself.

But more than that—He looked at me, and He saw me.

Not as a background worshiper. Not as an unnoticed soul. He saw me—and in His eyes I wasn’t just included. I was known. I mattered. His gaze didn’t expose me in shame—it clothed me in love. I was no longer a bystander. I was being drawn in.

He said nothing at first. He just looked. And in that holy silence, waves of knowing crashed over me. My spirit stirred, aching for more, overwhelmed by a love too fierce to describe.

He moved past me—so close the air felt charged with glory. My skin tingled. My heart raced. I breathed in, and the air itself tasted heavy with holiness—sweet like honey, but deep like earth after rain. My spirit cried out, Don’t let Him pass me by. I reached—not with hands, but with hunger. I could not move. I could only ache.

Then He turned.

His voice was the sound of many waters—like the ocean speaking Scripture. Fierce and tender. Strong and near. “You have cried out for My presence,” He said, “but My presence is not a moment. It is a life. A lamp kept burning.”

“I do not walk among the lampstands to be observed. I walk to inspect, to ignite, and to call. You are not waiting for Me to arrive. I am waiting for you to become ready.”

He stepped closer. His hand rested on my chest, and I expected fire—but it was weight, like glory wrapped in peace. My knees buckled beneath the touch. I tasted my own tears, but they were holy—not sorrowful, but set apart.

“Let this be your portion,” He said, “to wait when others rush, to listen when others speak, to move when I breathe. Keep the flame. Trim the wick. Be the dwelling place. I do not visit the casual—I abide with the surrendered.”

Then He was gone.

But the scent remained. The fire remained. The ache remained. I opened my eyes and the room was just a room again—but I was no longer the same.

He had passed by—but not to tease or to test. He passed by to awaken. To stir the cry that says, “More of You, Lord—whatever the cost.”

And that cry still burns in me now.