Waiting is hard work – it goes against the grain of the rough-hewn oak-like wood of humanity. It, waiting that is, is patient work and patience is not a part of the human spirit – at least not by nature . . . It is fight or flight; sometimes both (fighting over your shoulder while you are running for the hills) but NEVER neither. Waiting also requires effort. It is work. There is a requirement for making whatever peace one can with ponderous and therefore unanswerable questions like:
When?
Why?
For how long? Is that all there is?
How can I be sure?
Like the Bible story I believe the Guest of Honor is coming– can I wait for him? Especially when, if he is on any schedule at all, it certainly isn’t mine. I will try to wait for him. Take the light and extra batteries. Stand by the side of the road. Search the horizon. Shine the light. Will the batteries last? So many pass by refusing to wait for the guest, preferring instead their own party of pity or passing fancy. Tempting.
The weather says it is a quickly passing Spring being overtaken by Summer in a compelling fashion. But my soul’s season is Advent. I hate Advent. I despise Paul’s already-not-yet. My only comfort is that he didn’t seem to like it much either.
Advent in the church year is the season of waiting for the Christ Child. Waiting for a baby to be born is the hardest thing in the world. The second hardest is . . . waiting for anything else. Watching and waiting. Yearning for that which is hard to see and listening for that which is so very soft it can be passed off for a gentle breeze or still, small voice. Was that the sigh of a baby? Did I hear it? Did you? Would I even know it if I did hear it? Waiting is: still; deep questioning. I prefer: moving; shallow; answers.
The very creation itself seems to be like trees in winter poised and waiting. Stick-bare, leafless tress of my current life leaning forward on tip-roots, all of us expecting something beyond what we can see. Perhaps beyond what we have the right to expect. Impatiently. Mangered limbs, quickening sounds like great puffy cheeks drawing in cold air past giant oak teethe. Whistling. The time is coming upon us - but oh, so, slowly. Can I live in the moment? Time is the companion of the waiting, but a slow moving, unspeaking one.
Down in the valley the creature, me, looks up at the mountain expecting a Creator Call. Somewhere in the process I give up and start my trek toward the summit. Can’t wait. As promised, though God begins journeying down to the valley – to me. In the mist of the pathway we pass. Unseen by me, God moves surely to my valley and I miss contact by inches. I am headed up to where God must be and God is moving down to where I should be - waiting. I don’t want that to ever happen again. I need to wait, holding on to God coming – on God’s time.
When?
Why?
For how long? Is that all there is?
How can I be sure?
Like the Bible story I believe the Guest of Honor is coming– can I wait for him? Especially when, if he is on any schedule at all, it certainly isn’t mine. I will try to wait for him. Take the light and extra batteries. Stand by the side of the road. Search the horizon. Shine the light. Will the batteries last? So many pass by refusing to wait for the guest, preferring instead their own party of pity or passing fancy. Tempting.
The weather says it is a quickly passing Spring being overtaken by Summer in a compelling fashion. But my soul’s season is Advent. I hate Advent. I despise Paul’s already-not-yet. My only comfort is that he didn’t seem to like it much either.
Advent in the church year is the season of waiting for the Christ Child. Waiting for a baby to be born is the hardest thing in the world. The second hardest is . . . waiting for anything else. Watching and waiting. Yearning for that which is hard to see and listening for that which is so very soft it can be passed off for a gentle breeze or still, small voice. Was that the sigh of a baby? Did I hear it? Did you? Would I even know it if I did hear it? Waiting is: still; deep questioning. I prefer: moving; shallow; answers.
The very creation itself seems to be like trees in winter poised and waiting. Stick-bare, leafless tress of my current life leaning forward on tip-roots, all of us expecting something beyond what we can see. Perhaps beyond what we have the right to expect. Impatiently. Mangered limbs, quickening sounds like great puffy cheeks drawing in cold air past giant oak teethe. Whistling. The time is coming upon us - but oh, so, slowly. Can I live in the moment? Time is the companion of the waiting, but a slow moving, unspeaking one.
Down in the valley the creature, me, looks up at the mountain expecting a Creator Call. Somewhere in the process I give up and start my trek toward the summit. Can’t wait. As promised, though God begins journeying down to the valley – to me. In the mist of the pathway we pass. Unseen by me, God moves surely to my valley and I miss contact by inches. I am headed up to where God must be and God is moving down to where I should be - waiting. I don’t want that to ever happen again. I need to wait, holding on to God coming – on God’s time.
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