I try to stay busy, but there’s nothing to do.
The nervousness seeps out– I tap my fingernails on the table. I cross my legs and bounce my knee. I thumb through books I’m not reading and watch the clock hands tick around in circles.
Because this thing– it’s big. I wish I could see the other side of the answer, but I can’t. It will come in time– time that moves both faster and slower than I want.
However, there’s a truth in Lamentations that calms my soul: The Lord is my portion.
I twirl these words over my tongue, let them wash through me. He is my portion, so He is enough. Just enough.
My answer– it will come. Answers sometimes come slow and steady, a drop in the bucket until one day you realize it’s full, overflowing even.
In the meantime, I take my portion and I give over my hopes. Every morning I do this, and every day it is enough to sustain me.
I used to tell my friends who waited, “Trust.”
It’s easy to dispense advice when you can see clearly where you are headed. But now I know that in the thick gray fog of waiting, it is hard enough to simply keep moving forward, to walk directly into what you can’t see.
And it’s impossible to muster up this abstract thing called trust.
Now, I know that the thing to do is to turn right around and look backwards for a time. See what He has done.
Count the stone piles, the monuments to His miracles. Remember the steep uphill and the muscle strength it built, the awe-inspiring views it gave. And if He has been faithful for my lifetime, and many generations of lifetimes before me, won’t He certainly remain constant now?
Today, the sun rises and sets. Tomorrow, it will be the same. I trust this because it happens everyday. So it is with our God– I wait, and He answers when the time is right.
Not all things are easy, but He uses all things for ultimate good. And because He is faithful, I know that I will be okay. No matter what happens when this fog clears.
I spend a lot of time in waiting rooms. In fact, I’m writing this from the waiting room where I spend six hours every week waiting for my daughter to finish various therapies.
And it’s an interesting place to be. We all sit in the same blue and orange chairs, pull out our white headphones, open our laptops, and wait– for the session to finish, for milestones to be reached. Sometimes, we plug in each other’s chargers or comment on conversations we were pretending not to overhear.
We wait together; we wait separately.
Because even though we go through similar things, there is no one else sitting in my chair, waiting exactly as I wait.
But, it’s a funny thing that God does– even while I feel Him sanding down my soul with each tick of the clock, He surrounds me.
He surrounds me even here, in the dullness of waiting. I look up and accidentally catch the eye of a stranger. She gives me a quick, knowing smile. And I know she really sees me. She gets it.
In a million little mercies, He surrounds me with Himself. I breathe in His compassion, and He renews my strength.