The River of Waiting

These lovely old faucets came with the massive antique ironstone sink I found for the farmhouse kitchen we’re renovating. I’m not sure how practical they’d be, but I love the look of time-worn brass and I’ve been furiously experimenting with creating patina on new brass. It’s a ridiculous endeavor and the irony is not lost on me as I sit here, spending far too much of my day on something that time spent almost a century doing naturally and organically and wonderfully.

I stumbled over something I read in Acts this week and it’s had me thinking on the concept of waiting, and what it says about the God requiring it of us.

Waiting forces us to rely, in some way, on someone or something other than ourselves. On a child to grow, on a task to be completed, on time to move forward, on weather to pass, on anxiety or depression to lift, on people to change, on God to answer…

It does things to our soul like a river does to rock, and reminds us that we are not the one who breathes and loves and wills things into existence.

Though we yearn for the timelessness we were created for, for now, time relentlessly slips through our fingers and requires us to trust the only one who can hold it. Knowing that we wouldn’t be tethered to it, if it wasn’t preparing us and teaching us something that we couldn’t have learned as gloriously without it. 

Working on not wasting my time here, by wasting my waiting…

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