I've never been good at waiting.
When I was young, I mastered the art of the silent, poor-me pout, though it seldom got me anything. The evidence of past selfishness, I think, still sits on my face in the pudginess of my bottom lip. I wasn't gracious about waiting for polished rocks from the Nature Company, the shirt from the Gap, or the Caboodle Kit. I preferred quiet tantrums to patience.
Patience is still a virtue that eludes my mastery most of the time. This is why I don't do needlepoint. And I don't quilt. I'm too impatient to wait. Months and months for a finished project--it's too long. It's paper crafts and glue guns for me; I'm addicted to instant gratification.
When Nate left to be a missionary in Chile, I thought I would wait, though we parted without promises. My soul felt like a carving pumpkin in his absence, stripped of seeds and pulp and flesh -- incomparably hollow.
Of course, I will wait, I assured my eighteen year old self. Nothing could possibly be big or warm enough to fill this gaping void.
But, as my dad likes to tease, I "traded warm memories for a warm body" not even half way through the two year separation.
Nate found me engaged to another suitor upon his return, but he waited while I figured out that my own fickle heart was in fact meant to beat with his.
I told you. I am a lousy waiter.
It's been seven months now, that we've waited for something we want really bad. Seven fruitless months. I know that seems a miserably tiny stitch in time to some who have waited very much longer. And logically, I know, it is.
But for one who's never been good at waiting, it seems a sufficient exercise in patience. Enough long and enough sad. I've had plenty. Thank you.
Or maybe not. In last night's lengthy bout with sleeplessness, this thought occurred:
The only change
that's mine to assume,
is in my attitude
whilst I sit
In the waiting room.
No, my inspiration doesn't come rhymed. That last bit was just an amateur's attempt at verse.