The Long, Silent Waits
Yesterday felt like one of those endless days. It was an especially long work day, but literal hours aside, it was one of those days that dragged on and on. I checked my phone all day, hoping for a call from the rheumatologist or the final results from my tests with the neurologist. Neither one came. Today I will be having another MRI, this time to follow up on the heart issues I was having this time last year (that's right, January is the month I always fall apart--you may keep your New Years' resolutions, thank you!). It will mean more time in a waiting room, more watching for results. *Sigh*
In the midst of the waiting yesterday, a friend stopped by. She happened to be at the hospital to visit someone else, and saw my office door open. Her visit could not have come at a better time. I'd been checking my phone for hours, slowly feeling like things were closing in on me, and I still had many hours of work left. I was feeling frantic and discouraged, and her smile and hug were exactly what I needed to pull me out of my slump. She helped me find strength.
After she left, I spent some time thinking about the seasons of waiting we've experienced. Some of the waiting has been for good things. I could hardly stand the days that stood between us and our wedding day, and those hours dragged on forever. The days of waiting for our kids to arrive were endless, but in an exciting way. There was anticipation. There have been other seasons of waiting that have been more painful. Sitting at my grandfather's bedside, watching him struggle, waiting for the last breath that would bring him peace. Waiting, with empty arms, for the physical ache of losing our third baby to pass so that I could again feel as though I could breathe. Waiting for new jobs after job loss--almost three years of our marriage, waiting for the phone to ring with the news of a new position. Waiting for houses to sell, anxiously hoping for the news that someone was ready to buy. Waiting for test results and recovery for each one of our kids, at different times, as they lay in hospital beds. Those waiting rooms were full of anxiety, fear, heartache.
And yet, in each and every one, there were people who met us there. There were family or friends who simply sat with us--often without saying a word--and helped us find strength.
I was reminded of the story of David and Jonathan. It's one that has always resonated with me. David had fled, fearing for his life. He sat, waiting to learn what would become of him. And Jonathan met him there, and helped him find strength in the Lord. I didn't always know what that meant. But as our own seasons of waiting have rolled over us, the words have taken on deep meaning. Sometimes they mean a hug and a smile. Sometimes they mean simply saying, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here." Sometimes they just mean sitting with the person waiting, so that the stillness doesn't feel so empty. I can remember after we lost our Annie, one friend came and just sat with me. I don't remember her saying any words in the time she was there. I remember what felt like hours of just sitting together; I cried off and on, and she was just there. Her presence, even without words, meant more to me than I could put into words even now, almost eight years later. Sometimes it means helping us find the humor, find our joy. After my blog post the other day, two friends talked to me on the phone and made me laugh. One joked with me about how, now that I have a cane, I can shoo pesky neighborhood kids off my lawn (it was actually Thomas' observation!), and how that was an incredible silver lining. In the moment, I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes. Another friend listened as I talked about all the crazy ways we had come up with to make certain aspects of life work, including Micah's crazy suggestion of making a baby carrier-style backpack for me, to hoist me up so I could hike if I wasn't able to walk. We laughed about how unglamorous it would be to see my hulk hanging off of his back, and like a true friend, she sent me a picture of an all-terrain hovercraft-like wheelchair that would be able to handle any hiking trail and spare me my dignity. Countless others have sent texts and comments and made phone calls and offered meals--and the list goes on and on.
None of them did outrageous things. None of them "fixed" us. But just their presence, just being there, was enough to help us find strength in the Lord. It's taught me so much about what it means to be there for others. I so often fumble to find the right words, as though any word I could share would truly remove the pain my friends are feeling. But we've been surrounded by people who have met us where we are, in the waiting, and helped us find strength. I couldn't ask for more.
So thank you, to all of my Jonathans. We've been completely surrounded by a community of people who have shown up, who have met us here. I can't even type how grateful I am without tears. And may it be some comfort to all of us, that helping each other find strength in these times doesn't take heroic measures or grand gestures. It just takes showing up. It takes meeting each other in the waiting, and helping each other find strength again.
In the midst of the waiting yesterday, a friend stopped by. She happened to be at the hospital to visit someone else, and saw my office door open. Her visit could not have come at a better time. I'd been checking my phone for hours, slowly feeling like things were closing in on me, and I still had many hours of work left. I was feeling frantic and discouraged, and her smile and hug were exactly what I needed to pull me out of my slump. She helped me find strength.
After she left, I spent some time thinking about the seasons of waiting we've experienced. Some of the waiting has been for good things. I could hardly stand the days that stood between us and our wedding day, and those hours dragged on forever. The days of waiting for our kids to arrive were endless, but in an exciting way. There was anticipation. There have been other seasons of waiting that have been more painful. Sitting at my grandfather's bedside, watching him struggle, waiting for the last breath that would bring him peace. Waiting, with empty arms, for the physical ache of losing our third baby to pass so that I could again feel as though I could breathe. Waiting for new jobs after job loss--almost three years of our marriage, waiting for the phone to ring with the news of a new position. Waiting for houses to sell, anxiously hoping for the news that someone was ready to buy. Waiting for test results and recovery for each one of our kids, at different times, as they lay in hospital beds. Those waiting rooms were full of anxiety, fear, heartache.
And yet, in each and every one, there were people who met us there. There were family or friends who simply sat with us--often without saying a word--and helped us find strength.
I was reminded of the story of David and Jonathan. It's one that has always resonated with me. David had fled, fearing for his life. He sat, waiting to learn what would become of him. And Jonathan met him there, and helped him find strength in the Lord. I didn't always know what that meant. But as our own seasons of waiting have rolled over us, the words have taken on deep meaning. Sometimes they mean a hug and a smile. Sometimes they mean simply saying, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here." Sometimes they just mean sitting with the person waiting, so that the stillness doesn't feel so empty. I can remember after we lost our Annie, one friend came and just sat with me. I don't remember her saying any words in the time she was there. I remember what felt like hours of just sitting together; I cried off and on, and she was just there. Her presence, even without words, meant more to me than I could put into words even now, almost eight years later. Sometimes it means helping us find the humor, find our joy. After my blog post the other day, two friends talked to me on the phone and made me laugh. One joked with me about how, now that I have a cane, I can shoo pesky neighborhood kids off my lawn (it was actually Thomas' observation!), and how that was an incredible silver lining. In the moment, I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes. Another friend listened as I talked about all the crazy ways we had come up with to make certain aspects of life work, including Micah's crazy suggestion of making a baby carrier-style backpack for me, to hoist me up so I could hike if I wasn't able to walk. We laughed about how unglamorous it would be to see my hulk hanging off of his back, and like a true friend, she sent me a picture of an all-terrain hovercraft-like wheelchair that would be able to handle any hiking trail and spare me my dignity. Countless others have sent texts and comments and made phone calls and offered meals--and the list goes on and on.
None of them did outrageous things. None of them "fixed" us. But just their presence, just being there, was enough to help us find strength in the Lord. It's taught me so much about what it means to be there for others. I so often fumble to find the right words, as though any word I could share would truly remove the pain my friends are feeling. But we've been surrounded by people who have met us where we are, in the waiting, and helped us find strength. I couldn't ask for more.
So thank you, to all of my Jonathans. We've been completely surrounded by a community of people who have shown up, who have met us here. I can't even type how grateful I am without tears. And may it be some comfort to all of us, that helping each other find strength in these times doesn't take heroic measures or grand gestures. It just takes showing up. It takes meeting each other in the waiting, and helping each other find strength again.
