“No waiting on lane 7! No waiting on lane 7!”
The Target employee at the end of the checkout lanes called out like a carnival barker, enticing shoppers to leave their lines for the lanes, soon to open.
“Ma’am, do you want to move to this lane?”
The customer behind me had to repeat himself because I didn’t realize he was talking to me. I’d been standing in our line for literally less than a minute. I hadn’t had time to even be frustrated by the waiting and here was an offer of immediate relief from having to wait in line.
I appreciated the gesture but declined his offer and let him head to the newly open lane. I wasn’t in a hurry, but even if I was, I hadn’t been waiting that long.
And it wasn’t that long before it was my turn in my lane.
I wondered as I waited: When did waiting become a crime against humanity? When did not waiting become the expectation?
Not that I’m always so chill about the waiting.
Most of the time I’m more like:
And even when I resign myself to a long line, I’m still hopeful for another lane to open soon.
When I’m waiting, I’m on the lookout for an end to the waiting.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
We’d been standing in line for the Sky Ride at Dutch Wonderland, a family amusement park where we live, and I was having second thoughts, even though I was the one who suggested it. The Sky Ride, in case it isn’t obvious, is a ski-lift style ride that takes you across the park, high above the treetops. The last time we went to Dutch Wonderland, I thought it seemed fun but we had limited time and couldn’t do it. So, this time, it was first on our list.
My husband and our daughter were ahead of us and as they settled into their seats and were carried away, I nearly threw up. I clutched our 4-year-old son’s hand as our turn came. It was now or never.
I was sure that once we were on the ride, my fears would dissipate and I would enjoy myself.
The Sky Ride is a slow journey of panic and torture. I gripped the bar with my free hand while holding my son’s hand with my other hand and prayed that it would be over soon. I don’t know how long the ride actually is but it felt like forever and the higher our contraption rose, the more panicked I became. I was as close as I’ll probably ever be to having a full-blown panic attack that makes me pass out. I could feel my blood pressure rising. (Probably I should not have been on the ride.)
I looked around at the other people riding and none of them seemed as concerned as I was. My husband even turned a bit in his seat and waved at us. I wanted to yell at him to HOLD ON WITH BOTH HANDS but didn’t want to draw attention
I was never happier to be with two feet on the ground than when we reached the other side.
I’ve been in and on higher places without the same feelings, so I was a little confused by my reaction. Turns out I’d prefer my feet be on something than just dangling in mid-air, and I think I wanted it to be over more quickly. (I’ve told myself that I probably could have handled a zip line because it would have been over faster. I think I’m actually delusional.)
The journey across the park on the Sky Ride was slow and scary and totally out of my control. Had we fallen, there would have been nothing–not one thing–I could have done to prevent it or make it hurt less. And once we were strapped in, there was no turning back.
Sometimes waiting feels the same way, and even though I signed up for the journey, I start to doubt and fear.
The chug-chug of the motors and the smell of whatever was powering them blasted our senses as we wound our way through the barriers of the Sunoco Turnpike ride, also at Dutch Wonderland. Again in pairs, we were waiting our turn for two cars to drive around the new island exhibit at the park. While we were waiting, one of the cars broke down and held up the line while the two ride operators waited for help. Then when the path was clear, we waited some more while those ahead of us got their chances to ride.
At one point, a grandparent couple squished into one of the cars to follow their family members around the track. A woman ahead of us made a sound of disgust as she questioned why two adults should be allowed to ride when they can drive real cars. (As if adults aren’t allowed to have fun.)
On the next ride, a woman with two children was bumped to the front of the line because they had a special-needs pass that allowed them front-of-the-line access to the rides. The family ahead of us looked less than pleased, even though we all were guaranteed a spot on the next boat.
I’m so tempted to judge and condemn those who less-than-patiently wait their turn.
Then, I remember.
I’m guilty too.
Our family is still waiting to find our place. In the world. In God’s plans. And it is ever so hard to watch others pursue their dreams and live their passions before us, especially when we feel like we’ve been waiting longer, and we’re still wondering what our dreams and passions are.
In the waiting, I am jealous and selfish for my turn to come.
So maybe I hate waiting but maybe I need waiting. I need to be reminded that I’m not as good as I think I am, not as patient as I’d like to be, not as content or secure. In a world where I can have anything I want rightnowthisinstant with just a click, maybe it’s good to step back and pause before buying or pursuing or setting my heart on something I think I want.
I do hate waiting.
I want it all figured out right now. All of it. Life, people, relationships, calling. There are days I want to skip to the end, whatever that means, so I can find out how it all turns out. Did my marriage thrive for the duration? Did I raise my kids well enough to make good decisions? What did they decide to do with their lives? What will this tiny seed of an idea grow into? Was all the struggle, the hard times, the waiting worth it?
The end is my favorite part of most stories. But it wouldn’t mean anything without the middle part, the part where I’m not sure how it’s all going to work out, the part where the characters aren’t sure how it’s going to work out.
The middle–where there’s doubt and fear and misunderstanding and conflict and trial.
That’s where we’re all at right now, one way or another. We’re smack dab in the middle. And we’re waiting. For something. For one thing. Or a person or lots of things.
And even when it’s hard to see and believe, this is what I know is true: the waiting is worth it.
In the waiting, I learn to deny myself, to put others’ needs ahead of mine, to give myself space to be still and not keep rushing past my surroundings.
In the waiting, I take notice of people: the girl having a rough start to her work day, and I offer a smile, a word of encouragement. In the waiting, I remember the feel of my son’s hand as I gripped it for dear life and his tiny-voiced question: “Momma, are we in the trees?” In the waiting, I remember how precious life is and how I don’t want it to end.
In the waiting, I don’t just look; I see.
In the waiting, I don’t just hear; I listen.
In the waiting, I don’t just assume and judge; I seek to understand.
Yes, the waiting is worth it.
And I’ll tell myself that again and again.
Until I believe it or the waiting ends.
What are you waiting for? And what happens to you when you wait?