On Waiting
PC: @garyschapman
Waiting often resembles the slow drip, drip, drip of the melting snow, hinting at an elusive spring. It’s like standing in a tidepool, feet caressed by salty water, waiting for sea life to emerge. I teach my boys that patience unveils nature's marvels, making the wait worthwhile.
In my life, waiting takes many forms: for my youngest to sleep, for the starter to multiply, for a home of our own, for my husband's schedule to settle. It's a waiting filled with questions - am I waiting for the right things?
As the days shorten, change signals transformations akin to caterpillars becoming butterflies. This natural metamorphosis, paralleling my life, is a familiar blend of patience, faith, and growth. Yet, I grapple with this waiting, seeking patience and wisdom amidst uncertainty is hard work, in a form I’m not used to.
I wait for maturity, for wisdom, for a comforting voice in the chaos to say, it’ll all be okay.
Now, I wait for words to fill a blank page, for tea to cool enough to sip, to soothe my restless mind. I hear my son’s piano practice on the floor below, the rough tink, tink, tink of the ivory keys bouncing staccato, legato, back and forth chasing one another - a game of cat and mouse. He too is waiting, to master a scale, to piece his left and right hands together in harmony, for his lesson to be over so he can get back to building Legos.
These moments are interludes in our lives, teaching patience and presence. I work really hard to find the keel of our metaphorical boat, steering it under my own hand, but time and again I am reminded of the wait. I grow restless.
Outside together with my sons, we observe our cherished creek, learning from its quiet persistence through the seasons. In silence, we listen, then I ask, "What do you hear?" My five-year-old hears water under the snow; my eight-year-old, the quiet.
“Are the fish okay mommy? Or have they died like the spawning salmon?” my youngest wonders aloud, his face pinched with worry.
We reflect on winter's effect on nature, like the painted turtle in our advent book, whose heart nearly stops as it burrows in the mud, a testament to the strength found in stillness and simplicity.
At bedtime, I comfort my eldest, who has yet to fall asleep, our foreheads touch on his pillow and he confides, “God doesn’t answer my prayers Mommy.”
I wait, and he continues, “I want to be a better listener, and I've prayed about it, but nothings changed. I still get in trouble for arguing instead of listening.”
His concerns about unanswered prayers echo my own reflections on patience and understanding. In these moments, we find lessons from nature, realizing that sometimes salvation lies in stillness.
Waiting, then, is not just a pause but a practice, a mindset we can all learn to adhere more closely to. It's a discipline in letting go, a journey through the seasons of change.
