I wait. I wait while listening to the pure winter wind serenading tree branches as I stare out my window — waiting for something to happen, something to occur, something to transpire.
I am always waiting, it seems… waiting for things to get better, waiting for the words that may never come, waiting for the leaves to turn so I can feel at home again.
I don’t know if waiting is a good thing because in the waiting comes worrying. And I know I mustn’t worry because I am learning to trust all I do not yet know and all I hope will meet me here.
When I pray, I come to believe that perhaps I am meant to wait… because I dream of new life and splendid grace and that involves sweet, sweet patience. And maybe the waiting teaches me something, something I would not have been gifted without this destined and purposeful season full of endless unknowns yet endless possibilities, too.
And then I think back to the past, when waiting turned to heartbreak and heartbreak led to loss — a loss of what I hoped would be, and then a loss of me.
Yet when I really consider it, I can’t imagine a life without waiting. I trust that waiting eventually brings good things, even better things than I could have ever imagined with my hopeful little heart.
I have to have faith that things will get better, even in the clouds and dismay and wonder and questions… because all of this makes me dream of new hopes that bring life to a love that I have lost and found and lost and found again.
And I am grateful, you see. I am grateful for the waiting because the waiting gives me grace. And the waiting makes me more me.