On Waiting, From a Historically Terrible Waiter
Reflections during this Advent season
“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”
— Henri Nouwen
Growing up, Advent meant a daily dose of chocolate (and maybe two, if I could manage to sneak a second from my little brother. It meant “how many days until Christmas?” It meant presents were coming, and oh yes, Jesus too.
But it didn’t mean waiting. And if it did, the waiting was merely an inconvenience, a nuisance—a dragged-out holiday season at best.
This December, my life revolves around waiting. So much so that it’s almost become a joke. Another “opportunity” to wait arises, and in my most irreverent moments, my response is “that’s so Advent-coded.” (We work with teenagers.)
I’m waiting for big things, small things, things that will get answers soon, things that may never hear one.
In our Advent devotional, Aaron and I were both struck by this quote from Henri Nouwen:
“A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”
I’ve been chewing on this all week, and the part that sticks out to me most is the something hidden.
How often am I withholding from Oliver what he wants because it’s not good for him, in exchange for something better, or because he will grow from not having it? If only he knew, I often think to myself, but he is so focused on what he wants that he can’t see anything else.
How relatable! It’s humbling to recognize myself in my toddler.
We so rarely have to wait for anything anymore. Some of the things I’m waiting for wouldn’t have even been available to most of humanity. We are terrible at waiting, and we hate waiting because we don’t know how to live in the mystery.
We’re a hide-and-seek family—we play morning, afternoon, and evening, and all of the moments in between. When Aaron or I come home, we can almost always find the other hidden somewhere with Oliver. Upon opening the door, you’ll hear a burst of giggles.
On his best days, Oliver can stay in place—while letting out a melody of squeals, of course. But when we first started playing, he’d immediately run out of his hiding place to be found.
The more we played, the more he learned that the game is more fun if you wait where you are and let the finder do a bit of pretend seeking.
The something hidden is the joy in Oliver’s eyes, the way his feet kick back and forth with delight, the look him and his dad share when he peeks from behind the couch.
Now, as I am confronted daily with more what if’s and wonderings, I want to ask myself: What things are hidden around me?
Instead of rushing ahead to new/more/different information.
Instead of jumping to reactions or decisions.
Instead of analyzing and rehashing and ideating and imagining and forecasting.
Where can I find the hidden things—and how much better will waiting for them be than indulging in my short-term perceived sense of control?
There’s no better time to start looking.