From: Ryan Knowles
I waited in traffic at the intersection of 93 and 95 the other day. I waited in line in seventh grade to see Star Wars: Episode 1. I waited for both of my children to be born, and I waited to hear if my cousin was still alive a year ago. Waiting rooms, and their alt-pop soundtracks, fish tanks, and ubiquitous piles of lifestyle magazines try to give us something to do as we face down an inevitable root canal or long-overdue eye exam. Who doesn't love waking up at 3:45AM for some inexplicable reason, and after finding it impossible to settle again for what must be hours (but is in reality 11 minutes), resigning yourself to wait for the first gauzy intimations of the morning crepusculum?
I don't really like to wait, because I am impatient and want everything straightaway. I want a flying car, and a special ticket that lets me automatically go the front of the line, and not to have to hear my wife groan in labor, and to have every doctor see me exactly at the moment that I arrive. I want a fast forward button for the nights when I can't sleep, and a rewind button that would let me tell my cousin not to inject fentanyl into his arm. Waiting on the Lord with everything that is me and you, with the deep stuff of our humanity, with the breath that allows our heart to keep beating, and the same breath that allows us to cry out from those deep places, those Seussian waiting places, is terribly hard. But if we can't wait, we can't hope. We slam the lid on Pandora's box and don't let the fluttering thing out. We lose our imagination for everything that could be and should be and might be and trade it for a better view of our navels. So let's wait.
I do a bit of whatever I find interesting up on the North Shore with my wife, two children, and black pug. Right now that is sporting clays, soap making, and running an escape room or three.