One week from today, in seven short days, we’ll wake on Christmas morning and the waiting will be over.
We’ll continue to wait because that’s how we’re built. There remains on the distant horizon a treasure of something we anticipate touching one day. Waiting is part of life. We might as well get comfortable and learn to do it well.
But that’s the challenge, isn’t it? Waiting is hard. It chafes. We’ve grown accustomed to instant gratification and to have anything less makes us bristle.
I’ve been in a season of waiting for months. I keep reminding myself to look for the gifts in this season, but some days they’re hard to find. I haven’t bounced back from the surgery I had two months ago. Some days I feel discouraged. Most days I am exhausted.
But there was that morning earlier this week when I glanced out the window and an involuntary “oh!” escaped from my lips because big, white, fluffy flakes of snow were falling from the sky.
And there was that text from a friend who was just checking in, that made me smile, and feel kind of treasured.
And that old recipe card with my mom’s handwriting on it.
And flowers on the tomato plants in the AeroGarden.
And a simmering pot of soup on the stove.
And a caramel macchiato delivered by my husband that reminded me of the days when he’d bring me iced capps at work.
And countless other ordinary extraordinary things that add wonder to waiting.
I wake in the morning seeking first that which is best and make space for the waiting. Lord, I’m so tired of it. I’m also so grateful for it, and it is well. It is well. It is well.