Expectation

Some days the waiting grows long.

I grow heavy with Thoughts that are too heavy to hold. Loosed, they slip out surreptitiously, tentatively, unused to having a tongue giving them shape and letting them tiptoe into a world that may not be kind. The open air is paralyzing, but perhaps they'll learn to make a home there, to breathe deep, to grow unafraid. Fear is the man in the trenchcoat around the corner holding a burlap sack. But perhaps the sack is only to carry trinkets, not the Thoughts that grow bold enough to step between my parted lips.

How does one soul learn to know another? What is this mystery that the Father set within our very flesh, the patterns of mind and spirit, love and language that cause us to name another Friend? When does a cord connect one heart to another, and who draws it from here to there? How is it that souls have different depths, and the ones that must be plumbed for see so little company? 

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And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.

And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.

And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone. 

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A child who has been granted the voice to cry, "Abba, Father" is never truly alone. 

Waiting is what causes green to sprout up from cracks in the earth. 

Waiting is what causes the heart to beat, the bones to grow, the flesh to form, the lungs to gasp for air as first cries wrench the air. 

Waiting is, I choose to believe, a gift. 

A gift that that God, after giving, pronounced good.