The Weight of Waiting

Weight of Wating

It was hope wrapped up there in that package. Hope adorned with a silver bow and a card that read, “Save this for your first child.” We unearthed that hope, my husband and I, with that newly-wedded bliss still coursing through our bones. Out it came from the bag full of silver and white and glitter with the words “congratulations” slapped across the front. We smiled at it, that hope right there in the form of a pink and yellow baby blanket. We smiled at it and then set it aside next to the blender and the crockpot and the freshly folded towels.


Then it was time to go, and we drove up the 5 freeway with the words “I do” still clinging to our lips. We drove and drove and drove with everything packaged neatly in the trailer behind us — the blender in the box labeled “kitchen,” the towels in the box labeled “bathroom,” the blanket in the box labeled “miscellaneous.” Our compass sent us north, and our hearts sent us catapulting into the future — our future — full of life and love and babies.


When our compass finally switched direction, we knew we were there — our first apartment. We dove headfirst into filling the emptiness inside. We hung pictures and set out the beanbag that was to serve as our very first couch. The blender was stowed neatly in a kitchen cupboard, the towels were folded in the linen closet, and the blanket was shoved into a chest for later use.


Then it was time to go. . . again. This time, we headed south, and everything was packaged neatly in the trailer behind us, just like before. We drove and drove and drove and then filled the emptiness of our second apartment.

Until it was time to go. . . again.

. . . and again.

. . . and again.


Now I sit here — nine years later — that blender lost to years of soup making, the towels demoted to tattered rags. But that blanket, that blanket still resides there in the chest full of miscellaneous. It has been there, dormant, while we have struggled through years of tears and longing and infertility tests. We have been waiting, my husband and I, waiting to unearth that hope again. Waiting to pull the blanket out from that timeworn chest, smile at it, and then set it aside next to the rattle and the bottle and the new heart-beating full of life, love and us.


But that time has not yet come, and our hearts are full with the weight of this waiting. Some days the weight seems heavier than normal. Those are the days when the tears flow reckless, and hope seems to shrink to a quiet lull, but it’s always there, that hope. Always. Sometimes it shouts at us in manic hysteria. Other times it whispers into the deepest recesses of our longing. But it is there — He is there. Hope, waiting to be unearthed.


So, may we wait in joyful hope for Him — the One whom all hope springs forth. “For unto us a child is born” (Isaiah 9:5). And isn’t that all the hope we’ll ever need?

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