Still Becoming

I’ve spent a lot of time in waiting rooms lately.

Not the kind with uncomfortable chairs, outdated magazines, and a television mounted in the corner that’s just loud enough to be annoying.

I’m talking about life’s waiting rooms.

The place between what was and what comes next.

The place where one chapter is ending, but the next one hasn’t quite begun.

Right now, I’m waiting on interviews. Waiting to find out what my next job will be. Waiting to see where this path leads after I leave the farm store. Waiting to see how my newest book does in the world. Waiting on opportunities I can’t control and answers that haven’t arrived yet.

If I’m honest, I’m not particularly fond of waiting.

I like plans. I like knowing where I’m going. I like having at least a rough idea of what comes next.

Life, however, seems to enjoy handing me a ticket, pointing to a chair, and saying, “Have a seat. Your number will be called eventually.”

Sometimes I picture myself in the waiting room from Beetlejuice. I take my ticket, find a seat, and confidently assume my turn is coming up any minute. Then I look at the number they’re currently serving, glance down at my own ticket, and realize I may be here long enough to establish residency. Life has a funny way of reminding us that its timetable and our timetable are rarely the same.

So here I sit.

Waiting.

And thinking.

The funny thing is, waiting rooms often get a bad reputation. We see them as wasted time. Time when nothing is happening. Time to endure until real life starts again.

But maybe that’s not true.

Maybe some of the most important things happen in the waiting.

Maybe this is where faith is tested.

Maybe this is where patience grows.

Maybe this is where we discover whether we trust the path we’re on or whether we only trust ourselves when we can see the entire map.

Because despite all the uncertainty surrounding me right now, something unexpected has happened.

I’ve slept through the night.

Every single night since I typed up my resignation.

You would think the opposite would be true.

You would think that leaving a job without having every detail of the future lined up would keep me awake.

You would think the questions would be louder than ever.

Instead, the noise got quieter.

The moment I made the decision, the constant tension I’d been carrying seemed to loosen its grip.

The future is still unknown.

The interviews haven’t happened yet.

The next chapter hasn’t revealed itself.

I’m still sitting in the waiting room.

But for the first time in a long time, I’m sitting here in peace.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Maybe the thing keeping me awake wasn’t the uncertainty of leaving.

Maybe it was the certainty that I needed to.

Maybe the waiting room isn’t a punishment.

Maybe it’s a gift.

A place to catch our breath before the next door opens.

A place to reflect on where we’ve been and prepare for where we’re going.

A place to learn that peace isn’t found when every question has been answered.

Sometimes peace arrives when we’ve finally stopped fighting the answer we already knew.

So for now, I’ll keep waiting.

Not anxiously.

Not fearfully.

Just patiently.

Trusting that when my number is called, I’ll be ready.