The Waiting Room

 

“The

Waiting Room”

            Congratulations! You are having a baby—but not until you are 100 years old.  Well, that’s how old Abraham was when Sarah had Isaac.  Way to go!  You got that promotion that you weren’t even looking for—but you won’t receive it for over a decade.  David found out when he was a young shepherd that he would be king of Israel.  He wasn’t able to assume the throne until he was 30 years old.  You are moving to a beautiful new neighborhood—but you will have to travel 40 years to get there.  Moses led the Israelites through the desert for what probably seemed like an eternity!  Yes, you may marry my daughter, but you must wait 14 years before you can live together!  Or at least that’s how long Jacob worked for his beloved Rachel.  Talk about being in the waiting room of life!

            Just a few weekends ago, I took my child to an urgent care clinic for a double ear infection.  It was a Sunday, and we needed to get him medicine quickly.  We waited an hour and forty minutes and finally left after the long wait and unsanitary conditions.  We grabbed lunch at home then went to a different place where we waited for a much more acceptable total of 40 minutes.  Waiting can be so frustrating when you have a small child with a small attention span.  That day left me feeling exhausted, but we finally got him the medicine he needed to start his healing. 

            I started thinking about a song I had heard almost 20 years ago by Shane Bernard about sitting in the waiting room.  I was thinking to myself “Have I been in the waiting room of life?”  I was married at the age of 34, and I had my child at the age of 37.  I felt like I had been in the waiting room of life many times—waiting on a job, marriage, a child, or a change.  Sometimes I waited patiently, or perhaps distractedly, and at other times I waited with an exasperated attitude.  Life has been so busy lately for me with a full-time, high-energy job, a very energetic small boy, a stressful global pandemic, and an active Bible study group.

 I have been in my same profession for about 17 years, and without a break for the pandemic and a lot of new safety procedures, I was fully burned out.  I tried a handful of side hustles in hopes of reducing my work hours or to start a different career path, but they all amounted to zero success.  I have been unable to get pregnant with a second child, and my energy level has seemed to plummet from its already low level.  Suddenly, it occurred to me, “I’m in the waiting room of life again!”

The waiting room—why is it such an uncomfortable wait?  We want to know, and we want to know now!  That’s why people sneak a peek at the last chapter of that mystery novel or rewrap their Christmas presents because they just have to know what’s inside.  Now I’ve had surgery, and I have one week of recovery at home.  I feel pressure that I must have answers, and I must have it all figured out in one week.  This is just not true, and it’s not going to happen.  I’m having to constantly cast those thoughts on God, and I ask him for help and guidance.  I do not know what to do, but I’m fixing my eyes on you, Lord. 

What does the Bible say about waiting?  Romans 8:25 says, “But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.”  I am hoping for answers, change, and direction—oh, and patience.  “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.” (Psalm 37:7)  I’m trying to be still before the Lord, but with the busyness of life, I’m rarely able to be still and quiet until I’m falling asleep.  Isaiah 40:31 says ‘But those who hope in the lord will renew their strength.”  This verse brings me great comfort as waiting can deplete strength.  “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.” (Lamentations 3:25)  He is good, and he gives good gifts in and out of seasons of waiting.

Summer Camp Blunders

 

Summer is approaching and the days are getting warmer.  Middle-schoolers are abuzz about what summer camp they will be attending, and which bestie they hope to bunk with.  This takes me back to my brief camp experience years ago in the mountains of the Midwest.  Due to some serious homesickness and introversion, I did not attend a camp as a child.  However, during my sophomore year at college, I was persuaded by friends to interview at a popular camp for a summer position.  I did not have all the right spiritual answers, nor did I have any singing talent, athletic prowess, nor leadership abilities.  They really must have needed help because I landed the position as a kitchen server (basically a waitress and a dishwasher) for one month at their eighth and newest location on a beautiful lake. 

            Before summer arrived, I made plans to follow a few guys up since the camp was about five hours away, and I was navigationally challenged.  Many of my close friends had gotten jobs at different camp locations or had gotten jobs in their hometown.  The guys I was to follow were new acquaintances, and they were going to call me the night before we were to leave for camp.  Finally, it was the night before camp, and I had all the t-shirts, bug spray, and stationary packed, but I hadn’t received a phone call from the caravan leader.  My dad helped me plan my route as this was pre-gps/smart phone era.  I found my way to a very new, off-the-paved-road camp, and I felt quite accomplished.  Until I learned the reason that my caravan leader didn’t call-I arrived at camp a day too early.  There were several brochures with dates on them, and I looked at the one that had the wrong date.  There were many leaders already at camp, so don’t worry, I had a place to stay.  It turns out my navigator did call the night before I was to leave, but I wasn’t home.

            Little did I know, a camp has a specific culture full of songs, cheers, and stories.  I did not know one single cheer, but I tried to look the part by wearing sporty casual clothing and no make-up.  However, my sensitive allergies flared up with the screen windows allowing all the nature to breeze in and out of our living quarters.  Soon my eyes would not allow me to wear my contacts, and I developed a rash on my legs.  Most of the time I had my hair in a ponytail, and I was donning an apron.  Working in a hot kitchen in the summer didn’t agree with my face either, so my usual clear complexion disappeared.  I couldn’t compare with the athletic, tan counselors all around me, but I absolutely loved the fellow kitchen servers I worked with all day.

            Work week was loads of fun and just as the title of the week conveys: work.  We actually made the beach for the camp on the edge of the lake by clearing trees and rocks.  We cleaned, worshipped, and prepared for the campers.  We also had a little time to socialize with our college peers who had come to this woodsy sporty camp.  One afternoon after lunch, all the counselors were congregated in the cafeteria.  The staff called out all of us kitchen workers to the front porch.  They decided it was time for us to be properly introduced to the counselors.  But I did not categorize their method of introduction as proper!  They called out two strong male counselors who would be responsible for carrying a kitchen worker between them, each leg resting on one counselor’s shoulder.  Then a leader would announce their name over a loudspeaker as these two hunks burst through the doors of the cafeteria and into the crowd.  As an introvert, this was a nightmare to me.  I also have a tendency to worst-case scenario unexpected situations.  In my mind, I was definitely going to pass gas loudly onto the shoulders of these guys for all to hear.  The guys were quickly making their way around to the back of the cafeteria.  I had already positioned myself as the last in line.  I had to move swiftly, which isn’t really in my DNA.  I burst through the doors on foot, slapping high-fives all the way, with my face bright red, I’m sure.  The carrier guys behind me looked a little puzzled as they shrugged at each other.  I heard some laughter among the obligatory cheering in the crowd, and someone yelled, “Nice entrance!”

            There were many opportunities to meet other college students during the work week before campers arrived.  During one social event at the park, we were standing in a line.  I worked up the courage to turn around and introduce myself to the guy standing behind me.  “Hi, I’m Susan.”  “I know,” he said, “We’ve already met. I’m Blane.”  I was so embarrassed that I had no recollection of us meeting.  Fast forward a few weeks later to the cafeteria.  Blane approached the counter with an empty juice pitcher, and I said hello and reached for the pitcher to refill it for his table.  My sassy friend and fellow kitchen server ran up strictly to embarrass me, and to act as though I had been asking about him, which I had not.  She said, “What’s your name?” “Blane,” he said.  She turned to me and said, “His name’s Blane,” and she flittered away giggling to herself leaving me standing in silence with a red face.  She really had no idea of the name forgetting history I had with this guy, and she was just trying to embarrass me at random.  It worked!

            One of the traditions at this camp involved birthdays.  If it was a male counselor’s birthday, all the female counselors and kitchen workers were supposed to come give the birthday boy a kiss on the cheek in front of the whole cafeteria.  This thought terrified me, and as I heard them singing happy birthday, I ran quickly to the back of the kitchen behind the third row of supply shelving.  I heard a loud thwack of a broomstick behind me, and I turned to see another kitchen server hiding in the broom closet.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who despised this tradition because another kitchen server questioned all ten of us later, “Where were y’all? I was the only one who went out there!”

            One final memory remains that happened close to the end of my month-long camp experience.  I was outside with my fellow kitchen workers.  One of the staffers had a bicycle that wasn’t currently being used.  I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in years.  I was interested in checking out this bicycle as I had never seen one with foot straps over the pedals.  I asked if I could try it out.  I managed the bike until it was time to disembark.  I was very distracted as I was talking to my friends, and I forgot to take my foot out of the stirrup before swinging my leg over the bike.  I landed on my side on the ground still attached to the bike.

            My camp experience was brief and quite frankly embarrassing.  The theme of camp that summer was “Worth It All.”  For those campers and counselors, I’m sure it was.  And for those lasting memories, times of growth, and laughter, I suppose it was for me too.