Waiting is a slow kind of drowning.
You breathe... but not fully.
You move... but not forward.
You live... but not really.
Your body keeps going while some part of you stands perfectly still.
Waiting.
For the call.
The letter.
The decision.
The sentence that will divide your life into before and after.
Every phone call startles you.
Every envelope feels heavy.
Every unfamiliar number knows something you don’t.
You search their faces for a clue.
A sign.
A sentence.
A mercy.
And nighttime is the worst.
During the day, at least, you can pretend you’re functioning.
You answer emails.
Walk the dog.
Buy toothpaste.
It’s remarkable how ordinary the world remains while yours is hanging by a thread.
Someone complains about traffic.
A cashier asks if you want your receipt.
And you want to say:
Do you understand that my entire life may change on Tuesday?
But you don’t.
You say, “No, thanks.”
Then you go home and wait some more.
You bargain with God in whispers.
If I get through this, I’ll change.
I’ll be better.
Then bargaining becomes confession.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean for it to go this far.
Please.
Eventually even please gets tired.
So you say nothing.
Because there comes a point when you have prayed every prayer you know.
There is nothing left to say.
Just you.
God.
And the waiting.
I used to think waiting was the empty hallway between the important parts of life.
Now I’m not so sure.
Maybe the hallway is part of it too.
Maybe God isn’t only waiting for us on the other side of the answer.
Maybe He’s sitting beside us while we don’t have one.
Not explaining.
Not fixing.
Just staying.
And when you’ve run out of words,
when you’ve run out of bargains,
when you’ve run out of ways to pretend you’re not afraid,
maybe faith becomes something much smaller than certainty.
Maybe it is simply whispering into the darkness:
You’re still here, right?
And becoming quiet enough
to realize
you are not waiting alone.
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