It starts with a nudge.
A trusted friend, moved to pray for me, did so. A single word came into his mind. No explanation.
Wait or weight? he wondered.
Another listening pause. Both, he thought.
Soon afterward, his email lights up my inbox. I feel like a glass tube holding noble gas — stirred by a steady glow within and aware of humming, spiritual voltage: a prayer akin to neon.
I feel seen.
I’ve been awaiting someone’s decision. Unsure how to proceed, I’ve let the weight of not knowing siphon away my joy.
My friend pledges to “pray for the weight of glory to be revealed in and through [me].”
Times of waiting — so common in crises, relationships, and big projects—can short-circuit our outlook. Song, meditation, prayer, the Word — we flick our go-to switches yet often fail to discern what’s next.
An aspect of life as we’ve known it sputters and dims.
Perhaps God will generate something new?
You will have heard about the mythic firebird, the phoenix that rises from the ashes, soaring to new life.
Have you heard of “Phoenix regeneration”? It’s the final stage in a tree’s lifecycle.
According to arborist William Bryant Logan, when roots atrophy, water stutters through trunk and limbs. Eventually depleted, the tree surrenders its crown first. Ninety-some feet or more of a once-vibrant life topples.
But afterward . . . little images of itself may sprout from the lower trunk or even from the root flare, wherever a living connection between root and branch survives.
Does this rejuvenation suggest grace, incognito?
If new rootlets take hold, traces of the original tree will reemerge. You could almost call it immortal. Arborist Logan does, then goes on:
It is as though a person rested her arm on the dirt, spread out her palm, and two perfect new arms emerged from her lifeline, complete with all the muscles and tendons and circulation, the hands, palms, fingers, and fingernails.
O the Good Spirit loves an inside job.
Meanwhile, we really can shrug off the weight of having to perform. The gradual outworking of God’s holy perfection, already indwelling our souls, will reproduce traces of God’s nature in and through us.
In other words, be of good courage. No matter the present weight, wait. Providence will appear.
As if to underline the point: yesterday a sparrow careened into our window, then plummeted to our front step, seemingly dazed. Those bright eyes blinked, but the body, still standing, albeit hunched and ruffled, seemed paralyzed.
En route to church, we tiptoed past her, sharply recalling God’s eye rests with love on every creature. Surely she’d be gone by the time we returned, having regathered her strength.
Home we came. She’d moved several inches to the right, her downy head now leaning into a dead leaf. Would she keel over?
I brought birdseed and water, prayed she would rise. I wanted so badly to stroke her soft back, but caution checked my impulse.
Often it’s best to forgo interrupting what we don’t understand.
Maybe you or someone you love feels like that downed bird: stalled out, too shocked to regroup. May I pray?
Lord of All, restore and renew each person reading these words, wherever they feel depleted, uprooted, or fallen. Comfort them. Deepen their hope amidst the unknowns, even as you prepare their upward trajectory. Amen.
A tree. A bird. A God of Light who loves the living back into motion, by stages.
How do you cope with the weight of waiting? I hope you’ll share with us . . .
With thanks to Maria Popova, of The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings)
Quotations taken from Old Growth — selected poems and essays from Orion Magazine, including pieces by Ursula K. Le Guin, Michael Pollan, and others.
Photo of clock between tree trunks by Yaniv Knobel on Unsplash
Photo of sparrow by yours truly
You might also enjoy this post from the archives: Waiting Grace, Hearts on Ice
As I wait on God in my worship, I wait before God, I am in His presence. I have come to Him to express His worth to me. Perhaps I have told Him of my love, my praise, and my thanks. I have released anything that may hinder my worship. I have blessed and glorified Him. I have asked for some things from Him. I may be looking for His guidance or a clear word on a decision. And maybe now, with all that on the table, it’s time to wait. So, I wait.
I wait in silence. I take a deep cleansing breath; I get still and relax. I rest my body, but not my mind. (Sometimes rest before the Lord can turn into a nap before the Lord). As I wait, I consider the things I have spoken to my Father in worship. I let those things settle in my mind. I examine my motives. Am I satisfied that God is in His place, and I am in mine? Will He be lifted up by my desires, or will I?
I am waiting, but I’m hopeful and expectant. I want to be patient. I want to hear from God. So, I wait. I know He may not speak in a loud voice but in still quiet words – in perceptions and heart strings – in thoughts and images – in memories and notions. I wait.
My heart longs for Him, for His attention, His comfort, and love. I am attentive to Him, not lazy. I stay close, not drifting. I listen carefully and resist thoughts that would pull me away, back to the urgent. Back to fretting. I wait before Him, in His presence, always listening.
Time is a precious commodity, and we would only sacrifice to Him an offering which is costly to us and worthy of His attention.
“My soul waits in silence for God only; From Him is my salvation. He only is my rock and my salvation, My stronghold; I shall not be greatly shaken.”
(Psalm 62:1–2, NASB95)
“Rest in the LORD and wait patiently for Him; Do not fret…”
(Psalm 37:7a NASB95)
– excerpt from The Priority of Worship by me.
Dear Greg, thank you for generously sharing this passage from your book with us. It sounds like you’ve thought long and hard, but more than that, you’ve committed to inhabit times of waiting, with whole-hearted attention. How well I know the nap trap!
It is deeply good to be reminded of those two passages from Psalms today. Thank you!
Thank you Laurie, Your song, “I Love You Lord” is my go-to worship song. I encourage my readers to adopt it as well. I even wrote my own verses to it. Thanks for your lovely and encouraging words through the years.
greg
Greg, what a gift, reading your words this morning. My day is beginning belatedly, yet beautifully, thanks to you. May we lift a sweet sweet sound in His Name, all day!
Beautiful, and timely . Thank you . Hope there was a full recovery for the injured bird . It’s hard sometimes to watch and wait . I love the bird seed and water , do what we can for all Gods creatures , life finds it’s way ,yet sometimes it needs a little outside help…
Dear Larry, consummate artist behind the camera, capturing birds in their small moments and manifold glories, Yes! I believe the bird took to the air again. My search after the disappearance turned up no traces left behind . . . except in my heart and imagination.
Thank you, friend, for the generous ways you feed and nurture and capture on film God’s marvelous creatures!
A God of light, who loves the living back into motion, by stages.
Such powerful words; a sensitive prayer. The weight of waiting for another (or a bird) can be overwhelming. Oh, to wait alongside the waiter is a gift. I am a much better picker upper, let’s get back to flying, person. No weight is too much for me. Unlike the God of light, I tend to drag the living back into motion.
The stages of waiting??? I am the one who insists on rushing.the journey, be it mine own or someone else’s. As Susan said, an exercise in patience. Singing or crocheting, so much more kind than dragging and forcing. Lord, may I learn to wait alongside another, for you are the one who caries the weight.
Thank you Laurie, for touching my heart with your words.
Oh Roberta, I too so often find myself rushing and dragging, trying to hustle things along, picking up weight I’m not meant to carry (as if I could!). Good thing we get to learn the “unforced rhythms of grace” in stages.
I echo your prayer, now, before God.
Bring on the yarn (Hook my restive soul, Dear Spirit).
Lift up a psalm! Amen and amen.
You ask, how do we cope with the weight of waiting?
I’m learning to sit.
Still.
In our kitchen where I store coffee beans, filters, etc., it says to Sit and Sip.
My kids made it for me years ago.
I think with intention.
I’m discovering deeper than they imagined.
To take time, at least twice a day, morning and evening, to just sit.
Still.
Sip.
In the morning, usually a coffee, in the evening, lately a glass of wine.
No book, not even a Bible.
Not my journal.
Defintely not a phone or ipad – being not ignorant of devices?.
Just me.
Silence.
The Psalms I’ve memorized over the years.
Thank, GOD!
They rise.
Sometime a sentence emboldens itself.
This past week, just 4 words from Psalm 16, “Oh Lord, You are…”
The weight, is learning to do it and stay there .
Listening.
Speaking.
These are usually equal parts.
Springtime and summer, the birds help.
I remember seeing something in scripture years ago that aided me in waiting, and it’s weight…
Paul in his letter to the Corinthians quotes Isaiah 64:4,
“For since the beginning of the world
Men have not heard nor perceived by the ear,
Nor has the eye seen any God besides You,
Who acts for the one who waits for Him.
Iterestingly, Paul uses the word love in place of waiting,
“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard,
Nor have entered into the heart of man
The things which God has prepared for those who love Him.”
1 Corinthians 2:9
Waits, love?
Waiting is, loving?
Waiting on God, or with God, is loving God?
Sounds like the heart of Paul.
I want that heart.
Thank you once again for sharing your experiences.
The weight of waiting.
It meets me.
Dear Rick, as ever, your way with words, lines, rhythms and white space —— all these invite me toward rest:
I feel myself settling,
poised to learn. (Yet
no means, at hand,
to record your experience?
How daring! I see
by comparison I fear
losing the gem.)
I’m betting your written expression often emerges after immersion (Oh Lord, you are).
You speak of the weight of learning to stay there —— goodness, that’s so true for me, as well.
Thank you for those three lines equating waiting with love.
And those rising psalms! (I’ve been reading the psalms of ascents.)
Even while sitting, the soul lifts, along the way . . .
Your words meet me. Thank you.
Thank you Laurie,
When ever I read your writings, it like stepping out into the freshness of a new day. You touch my soul in such a way that I jump for joy. God bless you Laurie Klein Scribe
Dear Robert, I am all smiles. Thank you for taking that step—yet again. It’s such a gift to be briefly entrusted with a foot (and spirit) poised to leap . . .
Oh, every time I see your writings appear in my “feed”, it feels a bit like Christmas. I can’t WAIT to consider all you have to say in (and between) your luscious, artfully succinct lines. A Phoenix regeneration… Yes, I’m ready for one of those. Hugs!
Pacia, you are so dear to say that. We can all use a little merry, merry, whenever, however, it manifests.
Hugs in return, and prayers that amid the ongoing upheaval and change and waiting you both experience thorough and healing renewal of your weary, go-the-distance-yet-again, flight feathers!
I’m old enough to have waited through the weight a number of times. It took me a long time to learn that positivity in the form of praise and gratitude, singing and scripture meditation all help to lighten the load. Even now I’m waiting through a weight (perhaps we always are–it’s just how heavy the weight that varies). I found great comfort in your post, Laurie, especially: “Be of good courage. No matter the present weight, wait. Providence will appear.” Such a hope-filled assurance! Thank you, friend. P.S. Did the little bird survive?!
Thank you, Nancy… I liked this, “perhaps we always are–it’s just how heavy the weight that varies.”
Dear Nancy, thank you for sharing your seasoned wisdom. I think you’re right about the “always” and the variance in how “how heavy” the weight.
Now to view things without resignation, yes? Settling all the deeper into trust. This morning I learned (from a friend who worked alongside veterinarians) that had I loosely cradled the bird in my palms, the added warmth might have speeded recovery. So next time, I’ll know.
Meanwhile, I’m going to cautiously say yes, it survived, as I found no trace of it in the vicinity.
Bet you’ve sung it: “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.” : )
Your words remind me of crocheting. The way a kind of knotting holds together and in the end, standing back, we find a stunning marvel of lace. Thread transformed. You take two words and weave them into the real world. There we are now standing back, astonished at the beauty and truth of what you say. Bravo.
The weight of waiting. One can scroll mindlessly. One can consider it an exercise of the patience muscle, counting counting. Or one can sing. Let it be singing.
Yes, yes, “let it be singing”!
I’ve crocheted a few afghans; beyond making repetitious squares, I’m pretty hopeless reading instructions. Knotting’s an art; knotting’s a problem. Which outlook will we choose?
I think of lace makers, bowed over a lapful of pillow and threads and wooden bobbins: oh, the intricacies we humans can sometimes manage! — only the slightest echo of the Master Craftsman’s intricate art, the One who pulls it off, over and over, with lovingkindness and peerless excellence.
Which brings me right back to singing! : )