I am waiting for more snow. I am waiting for my husband to decide whether we are traveling to the other end of the state. I am waiting for an interview for an EdD program. There will come a point when this waiting will be over.
I am waiting for direction from God. I am waiting for a vowel. (See here to understand why a vowel.) I despair that I will ever get that vowel.
I wait a lot. It seems that one of the words that describe my life is wait. No this isn’t the spiritual waiting upon the Lord so my strength is renewed. Nor is it a quiet expectation like when one waits for the birth of a child. With the birth of a child, you know you are pregnant. You know that a life is inside of you. You know it will come out and give you great joy. You know that the waiting has purpose.
Today a dear friend told me that I need to wait. She confessed that waiting is hard for her as well. I wanted to hear her candid advice. I trust her. When a good friend speaks, one that you know has your best interest at heart, one that also loves the Lord, you need to listen. Often the voice of God comes through these words.
I wanted to nicely remind my friend that she is young and I am not. She is not so young that she is immature; she is old enough to have wise advice. It is just that I know that what I thought in my 30’s is not what I think now. I feel an urgency. When I was younger, I thought I had time. I am tired of waiting.
Ten years ago, I felt like the girl who was all ready for prom, she has the dress, she has the shoes, her hair done, make-up perfect and she is sitting on the couch wondering if her date will ever come. I’m still on the couch. My appearance older, my dress wrinkled and tears stain my perfect make-up.
This morning I am waiting. I am waiting for spring. There is always a spring to follow a winter. If I were a gardener, I would be looking at seed catalogs getting ready to plant. I’d go to the store to buy peat pots and soil. I’d take little tiny seeds, plant them, water, then watch for tiny flecks of green to come out of the black soil. I’d be anticipating the taste of a tomato, or sweet corn.
In the second grade they taught us about planting. In our used milk cartons, we’d plant marigolds. With great expectation we’d look each day for that first fleck of green. It always came. They always grew. The buds appeared. With luck, a burst of orange or yellow would exclaim Happy Mother’s Day just in time.
I’ve been looking at a seed catalog. I was planting my seeds in the soil of the seminary. They aren’t growing well. I’m considering a different place to plant my seeds. I can’t do anything else but plant and wait.
I don’t know when my spring will come. I guess I don’t know if my spring will really come. Nevertheless, spring does always follow winter. Today on this day as I await more snow, I am waiting for spring. This waiting is based on hope. While I see nothing, I know I have planted. I know I have watered. My hope is that something green will appear. It is that unseen hope in the God who is faithful.