I'm home alone this weekend. Well, alone but for these two frantically barking dogs who are certain the Big fella's going to walk in the door any minute. They've been sure of this for the last thirty-six hours, which brings the phrase "Hope springs eternal" to mind. Poor dogs. Or poor me, depending on your point of view. They are driving me just the tiniest bit crazy. But then, perhaps they feel exactly the same way about my coughing.
Beve drove Grampie over to the Yakima valley to watch the youngest of Grampie's grandchildren graduate from high school. They're partying with the Latin quadrant of our family, which means loud and long and loud. Oh, and did I say loud? Beve and Grampie are sharing a room at the Quality Inn, and when Beve texted me yesterday afternoon he told me that the background noise in their room was Grampie saying "Oh hell," every few moments. Among other things, Grampie had forgotten to pack any shirts, "Oh hell!" Fortunately, Beve packed a couple extra. By the time they get home tomorrow, Grampie will likely have forgotten that said shirts were ever Beve's, and Beve will gladly relinquish them. I've seen it happen more than once. I like this about Beve. He holds his things very lightly.
E's also gone for the night, down in Seattle, with a couple of friends. I think she was tired of sitting in this petrie dish of germs. As much as possible I try to go outside to cough, but that only goes so far. So I'm pretty sure all those nasties are hovering overhead. Run for your life, E, run for your life. Hmm, come to think of it, maybe that's pretty good advice on a more cosmic level at this point in your life! And, as much as you love us (and face it, you know you do!), I know you'd give your right arm, and maybe your left foot, to be doing exactly that. Wouldn't you?
I know. It's just the way it should be. You've been a good sport to hang out with us for the last year, to run errands for 'the grands', as you call them, to pick up whatever pieces I drop domestically (where the heck did you get that cooking gene, anyway?), but I get that you're getting tired of it. I get that you feel like you've been in a holding pattern for the last year, and are anxious to get on with a life of your own.
It takes faith to wait. I guess that's my point. Sometimes waiting is central action of our relationship with Christ. Not the waiting that these silly dogs are doing through the weekend, because their pea-brains aren't big enough to understand what they're doing, but the human equivalent of it. The waiting we do where we go about our business, act in ways full of grace and obedience but all the while are taut--our very souls are taut--with waiting for Him to reveal His plan to us. It's us casting our nets out over and over and coming up empty until He shows us where to let them out--that's the kind of waiting I'm talking about. Waiting and watching and casting our nets, and being ready to go when He finally reveals the way.
I lean in to wait. With my children who are at the age of waiting, hoping, wondering what their lives will be. With my in-laws who are waiting for the end of their days. With Beve. I lean in with all of humanity to wait. "Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."