Waiting.
Ironically, even in our hurried lives, our days are full of it. Don't you just love to wait? What could be better than waiting in traffic? Or waiting for your computer to boot up (especially when you're in a hurry)? Or for your turn at the dentist's office in anticipation of a root canal (oh joy)?
What about waiting in the drive-thru lane at Starbucks for a venti vanilla double espresso latte on your way to work when you can barely keep your eyes open for the lack of caffeine? Or waiting at the airport to see your best friend whom you haven't seen in ten years?
Yep, we do a lot of waiting during the time we're roaming around this side of eternity, but what a difference there is between waiting for something we dread and waiting for something we're excited about.
For example, I'm currently waiting to meet my first grandchild (I write that so calmly, but inside, I'm S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G, jumping around, flailing my arms, wriggling, twisting, and hopping in excitement). She's due to make her appearance this Sunday, August 15, but we're all ready for her NOW. And by NOW, I mean yesterday. My daughter (Ami) is no longer working. She and her husband moved two weeks ago, and our little Brooklyn Adeline Vincent's room is now painted, set up, and ready (minus the beautiful almost-done dresser that Pop-pop has made and the hand-made quilt crafted by her daddy's momma). Her clothes are all washed and ready to embrace her soft, tiny body. We're as ready for Brooklyn to come as children are ready for Santa on December 24.
I imagine Brooklyn is fairly content though, not in much of a hurry to leave the warmth and comfort she has. Other than the space factor, which she seems to work around by setting her little feet firmly on Ami's ribs and pushing herself off them horizontally as if she's an Olympic swimmer pushing off her diving block, she has three squares a day (plus snacks), practices gymnastics, naps on demand, enjoys the ideal temperature of a tropical paradise, and has complete protection from all unpleasant elements. We, on the other hand (her parents, grandparents, and other friends and relatives) aren't quite so content. We can't seem to make the days go by fast enough. We trudge through each one like soldiers trudging through waist-deep mud. In our imagination, we can see her. We hold her; tell her stories; rock her to sleep; count her fingers and toes over and over; smile at her infant fury when she's demanding a mid-afternoon snack, and speak to her in baby-talk (a foreign language that, regardless of syllables, sounds, or cadence has only one interpretation: "I love you so much Baby Girl.").
Nothing we say or do will make her come to us any sooner. So we wait. It's all we can do. We, or at least I, go about my days in hope that my acting skills are enough to pull me through with a semblance of normalcy. It does no good to talk about it constantly although that's exactly what I want to do. Calling Ami every 30 minutes to check on her, will do nothing more than, at best, encourage Ami to roll her eyes and ignore my calls; and at worst, . . . well, let's not think about that scenario.
And so, as with every situation in life, whether I'm waiting in dread or in excited, hopeful anticipation, I find there's really only one thing I can do: set the eyes of my heart on Jesus alone. Neither my worry nor my excitement will change a thing, but looking to Him will always, always, change my heart. It will always fill my soul with inexplicable peace.
And it always makes me ask: why didn't I do this a long time ago?
(For more thoughts on what to do while waiting, see "Waiting," my blog from April 24)
Ironically, even in our hurried lives, our days are full of it. Don't you just love to wait? What could be better than waiting in traffic? Or waiting for your computer to boot up (especially when you're in a hurry)? Or for your turn at the dentist's office in anticipation of a root canal (oh joy)?
What about waiting in the drive-thru lane at Starbucks for a venti vanilla double espresso latte on your way to work when you can barely keep your eyes open for the lack of caffeine? Or waiting at the airport to see your best friend whom you haven't seen in ten years?
Yep, we do a lot of waiting during the time we're roaming around this side of eternity, but what a difference there is between waiting for something we dread and waiting for something we're excited about.
For example, I'm currently waiting to meet my first grandchild (I write that so calmly, but inside, I'm S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G, jumping around, flailing my arms, wriggling, twisting, and hopping in excitement). She's due to make her appearance this Sunday, August 15, but we're all ready for her NOW. And by NOW, I mean yesterday. My daughter (Ami) is no longer working. She and her husband moved two weeks ago, and our little Brooklyn Adeline Vincent's room is now painted, set up, and ready (minus the beautiful almost-done dresser that Pop-pop has made and the hand-made quilt crafted by her daddy's momma). Her clothes are all washed and ready to embrace her soft, tiny body. We're as ready for Brooklyn to come as children are ready for Santa on December 24.
I imagine Brooklyn is fairly content though, not in much of a hurry to leave the warmth and comfort she has. Other than the space factor, which she seems to work around by setting her little feet firmly on Ami's ribs and pushing herself off them horizontally as if she's an Olympic swimmer pushing off her diving block, she has three squares a day (plus snacks), practices gymnastics, naps on demand, enjoys the ideal temperature of a tropical paradise, and has complete protection from all unpleasant elements. We, on the other hand (her parents, grandparents, and other friends and relatives) aren't quite so content. We can't seem to make the days go by fast enough. We trudge through each one like soldiers trudging through waist-deep mud. In our imagination, we can see her. We hold her; tell her stories; rock her to sleep; count her fingers and toes over and over; smile at her infant fury when she's demanding a mid-afternoon snack, and speak to her in baby-talk (a foreign language that, regardless of syllables, sounds, or cadence has only one interpretation: "I love you so much Baby Girl.").
Nothing we say or do will make her come to us any sooner. So we wait. It's all we can do. We, or at least I, go about my days in hope that my acting skills are enough to pull me through with a semblance of normalcy. It does no good to talk about it constantly although that's exactly what I want to do. Calling Ami every 30 minutes to check on her, will do nothing more than, at best, encourage Ami to roll her eyes and ignore my calls; and at worst, . . . well, let's not think about that scenario.
And so, as with every situation in life, whether I'm waiting in dread or in excited, hopeful anticipation, I find there's really only one thing I can do: set the eyes of my heart on Jesus alone. Neither my worry nor my excitement will change a thing, but looking to Him will always, always, change my heart. It will always fill my soul with inexplicable peace.
And it always makes me ask: why didn't I do this a long time ago?
(For more thoughts on what to do while waiting, see "Waiting," my blog from April 24)
Congratulations, grandma-in-waiting! Being a grandparent is the greatest.
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