Waiting

I’ve decided that life is at least 90 percent waiting. Someone may prove my statistic false, but my point remains: The bulk of life is waiting. We wait in line at the store, we wait for test results, we wait in traffic, we wait for packages to arrive, we wait for the morning to come, etc. We see evidence of waiting everywhere we look: frustrated drivers honking horns, sighing shoppers rolling their eyes, feet tapping in annoyed delay, children shaking presents to discern the contents, hidden dreams that have yet to come true, loved ones begging for answers we do not have…waiting, waiting, and more waiting.

As I write this, it is Advent. Advent is a season in the Christian year characterized by expectation, anticipation, reflection, preparation and, most of all, waiting. We wait for Christmas. We wait to celebrate the birth of Jesus. We wait for Christ to return and for all this messy life to be redeemed. In our waiting, we learn to trust. Most of all, Advent is a season marked by trust. We trust that there is a purpose in the waiting. We trust the waiting makes the arrival more significant. We trust the waiting makes us more significant.

I have struggled with pneumonia at the beginning of this advent season (apparently the 6th leading cause of death in our country). I am young enough—and healthy enough--to be assured I will see the end of this illness. However, there’s a big difference between knowing an end will come and actually experiencing that end. That difference is bridged by waiting.

For me, day after day of coughing and exhaustion has stretched into weeks, making me question the purpose of waiting. Yet, God is funny—always with a proverbial trick up His supernatural sleeve, bringing depth to the seemingly pointless. Somehow, all of life becomes an object lesson. I am a walking advent lesson…a lesson of waiting…advent on legs, if you will. I’ve realized how much I take for granted: breathing, for example….the ability to sleep through the night, the grace to go to work and make a difference, the ability to do a load of laundry without feeling like someone kicked me in the chest. We walk through this life, admitting that we are oh-so-mortal, but rarely reflecting on our finitude or acknowledging our need to wait for the God who encircles every part of our being.

As someone for whom “church” is a living, there is the danger of holy things becoming ordinary—perhaps even burdensome—things. There is the inherent danger that waiting might become more frustration than transformation. Not this year. This advent, for me, has already been marked by the questions of: When? How? How long? Those are supposed to be the questions of advent, but they are often replaced by: What’s next? How much? On sale, you say?

Waiting is the business of life, but it can be God-focused waiting. When will God show up? How will God show up? How long until God surprises me again? Too often, our waiting is comprised of complaining, tantrum-throwing, fist-shaking agitation. We fight the lessons God would teach us. We fight the God who is always teaching.

I have more questions about life and God than answers, but this one thing I do know: Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ will come again. Let us await His coming with hope.

Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind,
but all their notes have always proclaimed, "He comes, comes, ever comes."
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds
he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart,
and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
--from Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore