I saw a picture this spring that a pastor took in the silence of his church before the Easter service started, of spring flowers and stained-glass windows glowing in the sunrise. What I noticed most in that picture though was a space between – the dark, emptiness of the sanctuary between the flower and the window. A space of waiting, of peace and calm. A space to just sit and be.
I guess that is what spoke to me because that’s where I have frequently found myself in the last several months. In the in-between space. In limbo. Not here or there. Not at the beauty of the flower or at the light breaking in at the window. But in that dark pew, just waiting.
To use a highfalutin term, I’ve found myself in a liminal space. Not in one space or another but between spaces. In waiting spaces. After Chuck’s stroke, I could see his ICU room window from our hotel and the other way around. But it took me ten minutes of walking to get from one to the other.
Walking, usually alone. In hallways. On elevators. In more hallways. I wasn’t in real spaces. Not where people live, where life happens. Not where I wanted to be. I wasn’t in the hospital room with Chuck nor in the hotel room with Cody. I was in no man’s land.
The biggest challenge and frustration to get from one place to the other was the single street I had to cross and the stoplight that regulated it. This light became the bane of my existence. I could see where I wanted to go but it prevented me from getting there.
So, I usually walked against it.
Leaving the hospital late one night, I found myself behind two residents going to the same light. They got there first, hit the crosswalk button, and waited. I walked up behind them, saw there wasn’t a single car in sight in any direction, and, without breaking stride, walked against the light. As I crossed, I heard them giggling behind me as they realized they could walk too.
One day to make the light while the sign showed pedestrians could walk, I even jaywalked…and did so right in front of a police car (which I only realized halfway through the intersection).
I endured that stoplight. Day after day, multiple times a day.
For hours of two whole weeks of my life.
See that poor woman standing there? That was me for two weeks straight. In freezing cold weather. Until the hospital moved my husband to a different building a block further away and it started snowing and raining. Then I was stuck at that intersection in my car.
See the silver post to her right? That’s the button you push to trigger the light change so you can cross. It doesn’t work – not if you push it once, not if you push it 13 times. Even worse though? There is no button at all on the other side. I couldn’t even pretend I had control of the light!
Our first wait lasted 100 days, from a doctor saying, “You likely need another open-heart surgery,” to the actual surgery. Earlier this week, I realized our second 100 days have passed but the waiting hasn’t ended. I don’t have a button to push to make it change. I don’t have control.
One day standing at that light months ago, I decided I could use the wait. Instead of experiencing frustration every time I came to the light, I could breathe, meditate, try to grasp some calm. Maybe that pause was God trying to get my attention, to offer me a moment of peace. A moment of Himself.
Sometimes there’s a date on the calendar when the waiting ends.
But sometimes there is no date – not one we can control at least – and all we can do in the waiting is sit with God in that in-between space, that dark, calm sanctuary between the bright flowers and the shining sunlight.
Just sit with the God who is in control.
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