Waiting.

Seems like I’m always waiting for something. For the weekend, for Christmas morning, for someone to text me back, for a good song to play on the radio. Waiting…waiting…waiting…

 

Right now I’m waiting for spring. I mean, really, it’s the second day of spring already, and we’ve had snow two days in a row. The wind gnaws at my bones, and there isn’t a green leaf in sight anywhere. On my way to work this evening, I trudged past a cluster of bushes (or rather, bush skeletons) and remembered that they are lilacs for the first time since the flowers withered away last spring. Something—blue sky, a slightly warmer day, tiny weed blossoms—often hints that the season of wildflowers and warm, sweet-smelling air is frustratingly close, but never within reach.

I seem to be feeling this way about a lot of things lately. I’m waiting for so many things to happen that I keep looking beyond what’s in front of me, straining my neck around obstacles to see if whatever I’m waiting for is even closer than it was the last time I checked five minutes ago.

I am so done with waiting. But what’s even more exasperating is that I can’t do anything about it. I can’t force the lilacs to bloom any more than I can trek to the underworld to hurry Persephone back to the world of the living. It’s just so—darn—frustrating. Getting frustrated easily is one of my worst traits, a fact I’ve been reminded of since I was little bitty.

The practical side of my personality reminds me that I need to calm myself down and be content where I am now. I have so much: wonderfully supportive parents, delightful friends, warm clothing, and a place where I can learn amazing things in a community that encourages me to live like Christ.

The whole “bloom-where-you’re-planted” spiel is kinda cliché, but I think I’ll let my practical side win this argument, at least for now. After all, the White Witch doesn’t live in Ohio. Spring can’t be too far away.