Last week I had a few periods of waiting, so I took out my notebook and pen and began to write. Knowing that starting out with a lofty goal after such a long hiatus would only generate writer’s block, I allowed myself to just describe whatever flitted across my mind.
I found myself sketching out with words a woman who was anxiously waiting. I saw her adrenaline-fueled movements and listened in on her erratic, bipolar thoughts. The waiting period made her imagination go wild, to her own detriment. She could no longer decipher truth from paranoia, and it didn’t much matter anyways since it was all conjecture.
Ironically, I found myself in the same situation today. Waiting. Agonizingly, with all sorts of monsters racing around my brain unbridled. The trouble is, any of them could have truth to them, but I must wait to find out which one will be reality.
I hate waiting, but I hate uncertainty even more than waiting. I’m forced to contend with both, driven to uncharacteristic distraction. Please, God, I pray. Please, just let the waiting end.
Yet I wait, the control completely out of my hands and the call to trust, trust, trust ringing in my ears.