I’m not very patient. I never have been.
Which is funny, because I’m doing quite a bit of waiting these days.
Waiting for doctor’s appointments, waiting for phone calls, waiting for test results, waiting to see if a treatment plan is working, waiting for something to change.
I hate it, but I especially hate the waiting rooms. My stomach ties itself in knots before I even walk through the door. As soon as I sit down, my knee starts bouncing, a release for some of the tension tied up in my back and legs. I flit back and forth between facebook and twitter and instagram and my inbox and the book I brought along with the best of intentions.
I check the time every thirty seconds, wondering when the minutes turned to January molasses. Every time the door opens, I jump. Person after person disappears into the great beyond of the doctor’s office while I sit there twiddling my thumbs.
I’m just not good at waiting.
God and I have had a lot of conversations about this. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to be a mystery to every doctor I see. I want to know what’s wrong, and I want to be able to do something about it. I’m tired of perfect blood work and a body that’s falling apart.
I’m tired of waiting for God to intervene.
I want a God of outcomes, a God who does what I want when I want.
Instead, I got a God who is.
A God whose name is, “I will be whoever I will be.”
But a God who promises just a breath before, “I will be with you.”
God who does not leave me to walk alone. God who sits with me in the waiting, who holds my tears, who is wise and good and kind and present.
I don’t always remember it. Sometimes I need to write it to believe it. So I’m writing it. Because this morning, I’m heading in to see yet another doctor. Between labs and physical therapy and all my other appointments, this will be the ninth waiting room I’ve sat in since the beginning of the year.
And I still don’t have any answers, and I’m still not feeling better.
I’m still waiting.
But I’m not waiting alone. And for today, that is enough.