I step outside to put a plastic fruit container in the recycle bin; it’s bright and sunny. It looks like it should be warm, but it’s not. The quick calculation that there’s only 10 more days left until March is a welcome thought. Maybe then I’ll be lifted from this fog.

Still too dark and cold to run in the early morning hours, I’ve been staying in bed, later and later until I’m hurrying Alice through her morning routine. My girl isn’t one to be hurried, so you can guess how that goes. The house is semi-clean, but only because we had overnight guests the other weekend. Otherwise, my list of projects is very long and none of them appealing.

I wrote two posts within the past four weeks. I asked Daniel to read them last night, knowing the feedback I might get from him but unprepared for it. I knew they were both controversial; and it was the first time Daniel ever told me I shouldn’t/couldn’t publish a post. He said it concerning both of them. “I think you’ll regret it later,” he told me, especially the first one.

Usually Daniel suggests very little other than adding a comma or helping with some awkward wording, so I took his advice with gravity. He gave me suggestions on how to refine the second post, suggestions that I know are wise and sound and should be developed, but I don’t feel inspired to re-work it.

In regards to the first post, he told me sometimes writers don’t publish a particular piece for a long time after it’s been written. Reading between the lines, I think he was saying “don’t even think about it for a couple of years,” until I can re-work it on the other side of hurt and pain.

So I’ll wait it out—just as I wait for the sun to wake up earlier each morning and hang in the sky longer with each passing day. I wait for its rays to warm the ground, waking seeds and buds, taunting me to come outside, dabble in the dirt, and go for a run. I wait for the energy and enthusiasm to begin a new project. I wait in the space between crumbled hopes and the excitement of seedling ideas, between status quo and the Change to my routine that I know is coming (more on that later). I wait in the space between the hurt and the healing. I know I’m learning something from all this waiting, just not sure what.

Sleeping Strawberries


Forsythia in waiting - one of my favorite signs of spring.
Forsythia in waiting – one of my favorite signs of spring.

tree buds

I’m trying to enjoy this unhurried space I’ve created without exercise routines and projects to fill every spare minute. I read a book Saturday afternoon… unheard of. Recently, I’ve played more games and read more books with the kids than usual; I even painted a picture with Alice one afternoon. I’ve watched my two TV shows without my hands being busy, just sitting… also unheard of.

Tired of waiting for warm weather, the kids enjoy some late afternoon COLD fun.

It is a different space for me, but I think I’m getting used to it. It’s dimly-lit and silent, but peaceful and soothing. And even though it hurts at times, I know I’ll be alright for there are many traveling with me, to hold me up and walk the path beside me. To many of you who probably feel like your love goes unnoticed, you are continually there for me, and I thank you.

3 thoughts on “Waiting”

  1. Dear Natalie,

    You express so well the challenges you are facing in this season (winter) and season (hurt, grief, and whatever else is in your heart). I heard a beautiful thought on Sunday. We long to dwell with God on the heights, to build a house so that we can dwell with Him there. But if Jesus is with us, and we’re in the valley, can we trust Him enough to build a house and dwell with Him there? To wait, to pause, to unhurry our ascent; to accept a sort of dying dormancy, knowing that life is reaped from rest.

    I would love to read your unpublished bits, if you ever want to share them in a less public way. I feel that I could nod about them and say “me too”, but then, I am one who is ever more comforted in the company of the broken than in the company of the apparently “fine”.

  2. Dear Sarah,

    Thank you so much for your kind words and the lovely, lovely thought about dwelling with Jesus in the valley. It does feel so much harder to dwell in the valley than to be working toward what we think is the next “thing.” You have been waiting for so long too. I’ve thought a lot about you lately. May you continue to know Peace and strength through this time. I love that you are comforted by my brokenness… may I never appear to have it all together for that very reason.

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