This year is all about patience.
Out for a run through the familiar woods in this small town, I find myself thinking about all the things I feel I am waiting for. On the edge of another long, midwestern winter, the days have been surprisingly warm, but the leaves long ago abandoned their branches, and they crunch underfoot as I ponder this, just reminders of the life this place once held, shriveled and brown and covered with dirt on the trail. Winter is all about waiting. Waiting for spring, waiting for resolution, waiting for the redemption we always seek, out of our Christian carved habit of aching after warmth, forgiveness, and unconditional acceptance throughout December, and into the new Gregorian year. And I wait too, for my career to follow its course, for this period lost in an Indiana train town to pass through my life like the rusted cars on those criss-crossed tracks do through the night, for the uncertainties to succumb to clarity and acceptance.
Maybe there is merit to living in a four season climate that I have never fully appreciated. Things die. Certainties wither. Leaves, and colors, and faces, and hearts change, break, fade, disappear. And yet, we wait. Because we know that it is all somehow worth the biting cold, the sadness and the longing. Because God willing, we’ll live to see another spring. Patience.