When we were in Las Vegas a few months ago, street performers lined the sidewalks of the strip. The most intriguing to me were the statues. Like this Gold Guy. He’d stand perfectly still, waiting, until someone put some money in his bucket. And then he we would spring into life, scaring everyone with the sudden burst of activity. Startling us all, even though we were waiting for it. Like waiting for a Jack-in-the-box to emerge.
Waiting to be, and waiting to see.
It’s the hardest thing, I think. Harder than staying busy. Waiting. Being watchful.
It’s almost Mother’s Day.
I’ve spent seventeen years as a mother, and I’ve done a lot of waiting. I spent years waiting to be a mom. And at a time when many were finished the bearing, I was just beginning. A decade later than most, a ten-year pregnancy in a way. And then the swelling belly waiting. The sickness in the night waiting. The why are they so late getting home waiting. These were the years of waiting to be. To be a good mom.
But I am realizing, now, that there is more to the waiting. That it’s not all about waiting to be. That it’s not all about me. That there is also that crazy, scary anticipation of waiting to see. To see what the children will grow into. To see what He will do with these lives, all these lives, and not just mine.
It’s the long climb up to the top of the water slide, the waiting in line, the awkward settling into place, and then … the swoosh! The ride! The bursting into movement and activity and fun!
It’s watching the Gold Guy, knowing something exciting is going to happen, and still jumping, heart-pounding, when it does.