Lori and I have been stuck in traffic for 15 minutes, snailing along, inch by inch. I could ride a tricycle faster than this. My google maps told me this route was three minutes quicker than the one I had planned to take. Three minutes quicker turned into 30 minutes longer.
Waiting isn’t easy for me. On occasion, when I’ve been pressed for time, I’ve careened down the grocery store aisles, swooshing by those slow pokes ogling canned goods and examining box labels. Lord have mercy on the ones who stop in the middle of the aisle to double-check their shopping list. My impulse is to grab their list and start finding the items myself, tossing boxes and cans in their shopping cart as I scoot them out of my way. When I’ve got all my groceries, I bolt out of the aisle, hanging onto the shopping cart handle as my cart I and careen toward the checkout. While waiting in line, I tap my foot, resisting the temptation to unload the shopping cart of the person in front of me or, even worse: swipe their credit card for them to facilitate the process. “Just do it,” I want to say, “Unload your cart, swipe your card, move along.”
I worry about what I will do when I retire, and I’m sitting in the pew, waiting for the preacher to get on with the sermon’s point. Oh, dear me, what will I do? Take off my eyeglasses and start massaging my face with my hand, like my dad used to do when the preacher droned on and on?
Maybe I should take a lesson from the faithful Jewish people who waited and waited and waited for the Messiah. “I will wait for the Lord who is hiding His face from the house of Jacob; I will even look eagerly for Him,” said the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 8:17).
And finally, it happened: “The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light, and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death, on them a light has dawned” (Matthew 4:16).
This time of year, Advent, is all about God teaching us hurried ones to slow down and experience the joy of waiting. Waiting reminds me that I am not in control, neither of the person idling in the grocery aisle, the traffic jam, or the visitation of my Lord. It humbles me because I must slow down if I’m going to experience joy in others or the blessing of God’s presence. Waiting teaches me to feel my breath, for that breath delivers each present moment, a gift hidden within the molecules we call oxygen. Each moment is one of many moments, accumulating into the span of time that constitutes a life. Waiting reminds me that I’m not in charge of this event, this show I call my life. I must trust the God of the eternal now for each moment as God gifts me with it. And so, I slow down, breathing in and out, in and out: the very breath of life.
I wait as I learn, and learn as I wait. In the process, God is teaching me how to live.
Now, as for that imaginary preacher I may one day hear dawdling through the sermon, well: please be patient if you see me tapping my feet while rubbing my face with my hands.