On Waiting

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts: who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er land and ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait."

                                      John Milton, “On His Blindness”

~ 

I have just returned home from a trip to Provo and Seattle. This trip involved a lot of waiting: waiting in the security line, waiting to board the plane, waiting for take-off, to land, waiting at the baggage carousel, and for my ride.  And that is just one day.  It got me thinking about waiting and how I value the time I spend waiting.

Sometimes, waiting is the best part.  Remember being a kid and waiting for Christmas and the excitement that would build? For a few years, when I was seven and eight, I took waiting a bit further—I waited up for Santa Clause himself. My mom put the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room.  It seems impossible now, but my kid sized body fit very easily between the tree stand and the wall.  This vantage point also put me near the fireplace—the point of entrance I intended to surveil until I caught Santa making his entrance.  I lay there for hours, snug inside my sleeping bag, underneath the pine-scented boughs and I waited.  As the hours ticked by my anticipation grew and I imagined the great joy of unwrapping all the presents Santa would bring. 

Fatigue overcame my childish stakeout plans.  I struggled against it, trying to will myself awake—to no avail.  One moment I had my eyes glued to the black metal screen over the fireplace, and the next, it was Christmas morning. I was surrounded by presents, the Christmas stockings were bulging with candy. Somehow, Santa had come and gone without waking me. I wasn’t disappointed at all. There were presents to open. Besides, there was always next year.

Sometimes waiting is more of an ordeal.

That is how I would describe waiting to reach puberty. I was one of those girls who was a late bloomer.  Starting in sixth grade, one by one I could see the bra straps show up on the others girls and hear them talking about their time of the month. By seventh grade I persuaded my mom to buy me a training bra, even if it was only cosmetic—I was as flat as an ironing board, and frankly, I was beginning to worry.  Eighth grade came and went with no improvement. By ninth grade my mom told me if things didn’t change by my birthday, she would take me to the gynecologist.  That did not sound like fun so I began praying that my body would kick it into gear already.

At last, the day came. And it definitely did not feel like Christmas.  I got horrible cramps and felt sick. I went to the office and called my mom to pick me up.  By the time I got home and went to the bathroom, the waiting was officially over.  My mom gave me a Motrin and I went to bed. 

Sometimes, we are not waiting for something, but we are waiting on someone else.

For four days last week I was with my parents.  I was there to help them, to drive them to doctors’ appointments and just talk with them.  My parents’ health is failing them, but they still wait on each other—well, mostly my dad waits on my mom. Every morning he makes her breakfast of instant oatmeal, he brings her water and the phone, and a hundred different things.  There is not much my dad can do now, except wait.  He spends his days waiting. From conversations we’ve had, I know he is waiting to die. But he hangs on to serve.

One of the things I did while in Utah was take my mom to the doctor’s office. I had called the day before; her legs were swelling because they were retaining water due to failing kidney function.  The only appointment available was for three in the afternoon. We finally saw the doctor at four thirty. While we were waiting, I asked one of our fellow waiting roomer to take this picture.

 I wanted to capture this moment because I realized as I was sitting in that waiting room that there might not be many more opportunities. I wanted to remember my parents at this time in their lives, this time of waiting.

John Milton’s poem, “On His Blindness” is one of my favorite poems. Milton wrote this poem after he had been struck with blindness. He had spent years at school and in study, learning multiple languages, reading and traveling extensively. After the English Civil War and the creation of the English republic by Oliver Cromwell, Milton was able to use his scholarship and language skills in service of the state, and, as he would most likely see it—in service to God.  But things do not always turn out as we have planned. Just as he was losing his sight, the English republic died. A warrant was issued for his arrest and he went into hiding: blind, impoverished, a political pariah in Restoration England. Yet it is from these years of darkness that Milton created his master work—Paradise Lost. 

In his sonnet, Milton writes, “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Somehow, I cannot imagine Milton’s kind of waiting as an idle thing, wasting the time he spent hiding from the authorities in day-dreaming of restoring his beloved republic (though who is to say these thoughts didn’t occupy his mind). Rather than remain stuck in futile imaginings, powerless to effect that change, Milton took his dreams and ideas and wove them into his writing, into one of the greatest works of English literature. Or, I should say, dictated them, since he never actually saw his own work.

I admit, I am a bit of a dreamer.

I spend a lot of my waiting time in thought. Even when I am doing other things, like folding the laundry. And yet, I also feel an anxiety to turn these thoughts into words; to turn my waiting time into a more actively engaged Miltonesque sort of waiting. 

Waiting in this way becomes more than lost time, it becomes contemplation and meditation. It can be deeply moving, like the time I spent holding a sister in my ward’s hand as she waited to die. I was honored to be there, even though I did not know her well.  Waiting can give us opportunities to observe and reflect and to plan ahead. I dreamed up this blog post with waiting somewhere for something.

This is my personal challenge and my challenge to you.