“In The Waiting” – Sarah E. Westfall

Every morning, as I drive my oldest boys to school, we pass through farmland. Our home is nestled in a suburban neighborhood, but the moment we cross the state highway, we are surrounded by corn and bean fields in every direction. ThatΓÇÖs Indiana for you.

            This morning, as we made our routine trip for school drop-off, I glanced left out the van window at the flat, brown fields that went on for miles. Winter had been harsh, and the soil told the tale. Barren. Broken. Not even an inkling of green. And yet, the way the morning light broke through the puffy clouds, a pink and yellow haze casted a glow on the lifeless earth.

            For the first time in months, my heart felt hopeful that spring was near.

            But hereΓÇÖs the thing about living in the rural Midwest: Even if you arenΓÇÖt a farmer, youΓÇÖre deeply aware of the changing seasons. The ebb and flow of the weather impacts your daily life, from road conditions to sporting events to whether kids can go outside at recess.

Each season has its pluses and minuses, but no transition feels quite so redemptive as that from winter to spring.

Each season has its pluses and minuses, but no transition feels quite so redemptive as that from winter to spring. I love the freshly fallen snow in December and January, but by the time March rolls around, I am winter weary. WeΓÇÖve had one too many days of temperatures that spike only to fall again, of sleet that wonΓÇÖt quite turn to snow, and yet another weather-related school cancellation (donΓÇÖt even get me started on E-learning days).

When spring starts getting flirty, I hold hope at armΓÇÖs length.

When spring starts getting flirty, I hold hope at armΓÇÖs length. The rational side of me kicks in, ΓÇ£This is Indiana. It could very well snow again, even into April.ΓÇ¥ But hope usually wins. I begin to picture stepping out into the sun on my back patio, letting the warm rays sink deep into my bones. I can almost smell the air, that swirl of earth and dandelion. I envision spreading a blanket out in the backyard and watching my boys run around until dinnertime forces us inside.

I know spring is coming. But we arenΓÇÖt there yet.

How often have we found ourselves in seasons of in-between? We canΓÇÖt go back but donΓÇÖt yet have the freedom to move forward. We grow weary in the unknown.

And in many ways, life isnΓÇÖt all that different. How often have we found ourselves in seasons of in-between? We canΓÇÖt go back but donΓÇÖt yet have the freedom to move forward. We grow weary in the unknown. Perhaps, here and there, weΓÇÖve seen a flicker of things just on the other side. But we are not there yet.

I, too, have been in the waiting. In many ways, I am there now. And let me tell you: I am not a patient person. But IΓÇÖve been here enough to know that this pause is not by accident. God has not forgotten us. He has not abandoned us, jaded and worn. Rather, He may be doing His best work. Because often what happens in the waiting is more important than what lies on the other side.

I waited patiently for the Lord;
    he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
    out of the mud and mire.

ΓÇöPsalm 40:1ΓÇô2 (NIV)