I sat across the small table from a good friend in Prince Street Cafe and I held the mug of coffee in both hands. I stared into its dark depths and I told him it still feels like a year of waiting, a year of not-quite-yet. I can’t say it’s an ache but it feels like things are holding their breathe. I’m not naturally patient. I’ve never found it easy to wait.
“That’s your word for the year,” my friend said. “You talk about that every time we meet. Wait.”
Then he smiled and said he gets upset when people are praying for him and ask God that he’ll have patience. He doesn’t want patience! He wants to move forward! He wants to take the bull by the horns! He laughed.
“I want to tell them they can hang on to their prayers, if they’re going to pray that I have patience.”
I know that feeling.
Waiting involves embracing the silence, something I’ve been trying to get better at. Sit in the present, and for just a moment let go of my hopes and dreams, my plans and strategies, the web I’m weaving in my mind. Let the wind of this present moment clear all those cobwebs. I want to turn down the volume on this noisy world, recapture my own senses, let them find life again.
Is that, I wonder, the essence of waiting? Finding life again?