waiting.

I was with a dear one the other day, praying and wondering aloud how I could alleviate her hard and she said this, “I’m just in the Waiting Room.  I’ve been there a long time, read all the magazines, made small talk with all the others and am ready to get out.”  I asked her to look for my mail and then sat that night and chewed on the whole thing.  The Waiting Room.  We’re there too and it sucks, frankly.  There waiting for USCIS to stamp our papers so we can get our dossier to China and go one step further to bringing our girl home.  My dear one is there waiting on jobs, a teacher we heart is there too, waiting for a love of her own, a friend waiting for her husband to fall back in love with her, another trying to find the thing that will help her fearful son.  The Waiting Room feels dismal and forever.  It’s hot and clammy and every time someone gets called out you are sad it isn’t you.  I’ve spent lots of time in the Waiting Room.  I know it well, can recall the number of ceiling tiles and what the artwork looks like.  Have spent long hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs, riding it out.  I’ve, truthfully, spent most of my time there impatient, looking only to doing the thing that will get me out, whatever that thing is.
But I’ve had sweet hours in the Waiting Room too.  Hours spent on knees, crying out my hurt and anger.  Hours squandered begging to be delivered, when all along the waiting was at least part of the delivery.  But you can only see that once you’re safely out of the Waiting Room.  And then you look back and, in quiet moments of calm and serene, you will almost wish it back, if only for a sec.  That sweet time you spent stripped bare and waiting on Father to tell you to go, or to stop or, for heaven’s sake, do something.  It’ll seem better then, when you’re out.  Will have fading around the edges and kind of a dreamy cast as so many past things do.  And you’ll remember how it felt when you were so very small and He was so very big and for just that short while in the Waiting Room it was as it’s supposed to be: you laid out and Him over all.  And you will try to remember that so the next time you find yourself in the Waiting Room, you’ll swallow fear and just be still.  And even though it feels like you’ll be there forever, that’s a trick and not to be believed.  The Waiting Room is a season and seasons always give birth to new seasons.  Always.
So, friend, if you’ve landed yourself in the Waiting Room, take heart.  It’s a season and every season has it’s beautiful (except March, which isn’t really a season at all, but a month and just absolutely not beautiful).  This is your time to develop total dependance on Father, which hurts a little but will feel good after, I promise.  You will leave the Waiting Room more deeply in love with Jesus and with a hunger to move.  This might be why you are there.  The love and the move parts?  They are the work that is birthed in the Waiting Room.  When they come, welcome them and thank Father.  They are beautiful work. They will change you.  And, can I challenge you to find a Sister or Brother or two and ask them to visit you there?  Ask them to enter into your still and pray you through?  Not out, but through.  Ask them to pray you still and silent and willing.  I’d be honored to join you there.
This is me being real. If you’re in the Waiting Room, seriously, could you look for my mail?  Or, for the love, at least the January issue of Canadian House and Home?

2 Replies to “waiting.”

  1. Meg, this is beautiful. The Waiting Room is a place I'm intimately familiar with. Do whatever you can to keep your eyes on Jesus, not your circumstances, pray, and even read the tiny print on your iPhone Bible. I searched my room high and low but didn't find your mail, but I did find a Lighting Catalog. love you deep

    Like

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