on waiting

In our daily moments between disorder and renewal, between death and resurrection, what would it look like to trust that Jesus is on his way, but simply taking his time?

I can't help but think about Martha and Mary after Lazarus' death. I imagine Martha, wringing her hands, pacing around her home, rushing to the door at the slightest sound in a frantic attempt to hold on to her faith as she prayed for Jesus to actually come. I imagine Mary, distraught and unwilling to move, weeping in mourning and despair.    We often remember the glorious ending, but rush over the messy wilderness of the middle. Especially in our world that likes to skip the hard things, that numbs us to the feelings that surface in the mundane, that forces our phones out of our pockets at stop lights and in line for coffee, we hate waiting. This is even more acute when the waiting is uncomfortable rather than just boring, from the ache of unfulfilled longing to the sharp pain of loss.    During this last collective season, we have been doing quite a lot of that: waiting. We've embodied those feelings of anxiety and restlessness as we wait for Jesus to show up, and we've laid face down and wept at what has felt like the end of the world.    In our daily moments between disorder and renewal, between death and resurrection, what would it look like to trust that Jesus is on his way, but simply taking his time?    What would it look like for us to submit to the discipline of what has always been a core practice for God's people: patience? Throughout the Biblical narrative, we find God's people are shaped in the waiting, in the wilderness and outside tombs. Through the daily rhythms of paying generous attention–contemplation–God draws near, watering a new thing in us.    As we sit in these long moments (or weeks, or years) of contemplation, what does it look like for us to be shaped in the slow way of God? I wonder what God might have for us in the waiting, what God might be whispering to us in the in-between moments. Often, our restless hearts have to sit with things for a long time before they change, like a river carving out a mountain, or a seed germinating in the soil. As we tend to the growth of our soul, choosing to opt-in to the discomfort of waiting instead of running away from it, God cultivates beauty in the darkness. And we are made new.