I hate waiting. While I am (typically?) patient with people, I often curse at people in traffic, get antsy in line at the grocery store, find myself frustrated when the internet won’t load on my old computer and absolutely despise the music played over the phone while I am waiting for a representative. I am the worst with myself – I fall repeatedly into the trap of impossible standards, thinking I am not good enough unless I somehow am a hybrid of Martha Stewart and Michelle Obama. I often feel justified in my multi-tasking-email-wielding-paper-writing habits – after all, hate does in fact rhyme with wait. And that must mean something.
Except that often, the truth behind my constant irritation at waiting (and perhaps even my uncanny ability to arrive everywhere five minutes late), is because I am afraid to be left alone. That the friend will cancel our cup of coffee. That I will be forgotten. That God will not meet me where I need. Despite the record of faithfulness. No matter the signs and wonders. Waiting peaks around the bushes of busyness, giving me a wink and beckoning me to come and truly exist in the space in between. To occupy the unknown. To step out on ground I can neither see or imagine. To attempt to walk on troubled water. But I too often am scared to face the fear that inhabits the wait. Read on…
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