The Waiting Place

You can get so confused

that you’ll start in to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps , for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or string of pearls, or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting. 

That’s from Oh, the Places You’ll Go, by Dr. Seuss.  He was wrong, you know.  The Waiting Place doesn’t have to be useless.  My friend, Paul, told me that once.  It wasn’t during a time when I could see it very clearly either.  It was the summer of 2013.  I just wanted a boyfriend.  I went through all the usual questions.  Is that so hard to ask?  Is it really that complicated?  Is there something wrong with me?  Is this punishment for something somehow that I’ve done?  No one else has to wait (ha!), why me?  It was a rollicking frolicking pity party, yall.  

What Paul said that night has stuck with me.  Waiting isn’t wasted.  It’s written right there in my journal.  Tuesday, July 23, 2013.  Waiting isn’t wasted.  Somehow, an All Mighty, All Knowing, All Perfect God is doing something much bigger than our curtailed vision can take in.  

That doesn’t make it easy.  Some of you have waited for and are still waiting for much weightier things than my end-of-the-summer-boyfriend.  

You wait for conception.  

You wait for doctor’s results.  

You wait for someone to come around.  

You wait for someone to be a friend.  

You wait for a safe place.  

You wait for someone to come home.  

You wait for someone to come to their senses.  

You wait for a small child to cross an ocean.  

You wait for the job offer.  

You wait for the sentence to be served.  

You wait for remission.

You wait for _____

Sometimes the weight of it all squishes the words right out of you.  The air goes right out of your lungs as a sigh instead of an explanation.  It can be lonely.  

When I was little, I thought that all I was waiting for was to grow up and do all the things that grownups do.  Then I would have arrived, and some inspector of persons would hand me a certificate, take my picture, and make an announcement that I had arrived.  After that, no more waiting!  Well, I have a man, a car, and a job, and you know what?  I’m still waiting for things.  

People tell me to “just be patient” “just wait”.  Do they tell you that too?  Probably so.  Most of the time I nod smilingly, but really I want to sort of swat them.  Don’t you understand?!  I want to tell them.  I don’t like this!  This wasn’t my plan!  [My plans rarely include waiting.]  What does that even MEAN?!  Just be patient.  What is patient, anyway?!  I get it, I get it, it’s a fruit of the Spirit.  It’s an orange or a strawberry in flannel graph Sunday school land.  But what ELSE is it, and can I buy it at Target?  

It’s ferocious.  

What?  Not what you were expecting?  

You were probably thinking sheep and knitting and porch swings.    

Patience is a wild one.  It stands still and runs at full speed.  It clings to Jesus and lets go of being in charge.  It waits but it doesn’t wait around.     

Patience swaddles squalling babies.  Keeps the flags standing straight in the front yard until the hero comes home.  Doesn’t give up when a year of treatment stretches into ten.  Shows kindness to the wife who isn’t quite ready to give up her bitterness.  Gives respect to the husband who only seems to have sharp words.  Gets on knees for the 67th time with the same prayer.  

Patience declares that God’s will, whatever it is, will come at the best time.  Patience declares that God’s love is not absent.  Patience gets busy living life because standing around in a black hole of self pity isn’t worth the time.  Patience declares that though we wait, we are not forgotten.  

Patience holds on to hope with white knuckles because God has been holding onto us since Adam, and He isn’t about to quit now. 

Love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Cubelife: The Update

A maze of cubicles.  People talking away on their headsets.  Mandatory meetings.  Quotas.  Pencil skirts.  This is where I work.  Oh, sure, it could be taken for the drab, crushing, corporate life.  I mean, I answer the phone, leave voicemails, have to formulate strategic plans for meeting my quota, avoid certain awkward office people, and wear a headset.  

Except.  

I was not born to fit.  I am learning this more and more the longer I walk with Jesus.  Neither are you.  Neither is anyone.  We were not born to fit in, but fit together, using differences as a multidimensional strength, not an aberration to be lopped off at the latest convenience.  

So, yes, I do have a cubicle.  I do wear a headset.  I do feel the pressure of trying to make my quota each month.  I do sit through meetings that could have been condensed to an email.  

But also…

I do spend most of my day at a standing desk - standing, line dancing, dancing in general, doing squats - or bouncing on a yoga ball.  I do occasionally stand on my rolly chair and twirl around to find the person I’m looking for (wherein I usually get admonished and asked haven’t I read Officer Buckle and Gloria to which I say, yes, I dislike it very much thank you.).  

I do wear a headset, which frees my hands up to do fistpumps, type memos and do power poses.  I do leave some of my customers singing voicemails during the holidays just because.  I do have meaningful water cooler conversations with my coworkers about their children and pets.  I do round people up for a daily stroll around the block because sitting all day isn’t good for you, and office air isn’t either.  Note: I do try to be a good responsible grownup when I must.  

See, it isn’t all bad and squelching and American nightmare.  I get to work with principals and teachers.  Some of them teach in schools with lots of students from lots of nations.  Some of them teach in schools surrounded by cornfields tilled by five generations of Johnsons and Smiths.  I get to give away free stuff that will help students meet their goals in meaningful ways.  I get to sell AP French and elementary science and middle school literature.  I get to make sure that schools get what they need to meet the rising demands of education.  

I get to work with people that make me laugh so hard I’m crying.  I get to celebrate with them when they make their quota.  I get to share their birthday donuts.  I get to hear updates about their kids’ football games.  I get to help them sort out the stresses of ordinary life that sometimes seem extraordinarily heavy.  

Being in sales is fun for a reason I didn’t anticipate when I began, as is usually the case.  My dad has been in sales for as long as trees have had leaves, and growing up I always heard stories about his trips and accounts.  Now I am running around in the business world trying to keep my accounts happy, and it’s created a sort of vocational kinship with my dad.  I can call him and talk about strategies or efficiency or whatever is going on that day.  

Is it the perfect job?  Nope.  I don’t think they make those.  Do I want to do it until I’m 70?  Probably not, but if I did, it wouldn’t be a bad gig.  Do I love it and am I beyond thankful that God has me here?  Yep-o-rama.  

Pearson is a great place to work.  Tomorrow, they’re taking our entire department to attend training in Orlando for the week.  Helllooooo, business trip!  

Sometimes it’s more about making whatever you do meaningful than searching high and low for something that seems meaningful to do.

- Little Miss Sunshine, who occasionally wears pencil skirts, and who is chided at least once a week for standing on her desk chair.