In the Waiting Room

Like I said earlier, “I am not a good patient.” And, I have been sorta praying for what seems days, but it’s been barely 36 hours, this last round of it anyway. Plus all of the other days and weeks and months, of course, have I been praying. And I have said in so many words that first, I do not know what to do but my eyes are on God. And then second, I said that my eyes were still on God, but I knew what to do. Apparently, that was not quite correct, so I am back to the first, and not liking it at all. I am wallowing, perhaps, and I gotta get a grip.

Probably, I need to let go of that grip, however, or I may become not only a not-good patient but a terminal patient.

I won’t, I know. Die that is. But it feels like it. Been here before a little while ago, but this seems much more difficult. It feels like I will die and I do not want to. There is too much living to do, and I have had a glimpse or two or three of that and I have been given plenty of assurances along the way that the life is both here and there and that more of it shall come, but holy crap it’s tough.

I am just having one of those occasions where I realize how human I am, and how male I am particularly.

Maybe? IHNI.

So, dear dear God, there it is. I need your help in a way never before needed or even called for or recognized. It is unlike anything in my experience, and that is what makes it so difficult, but easy to decide to endure. Weird. I won’t even attempt metaphor with you Father, because God knows I (oh, wait, that is you, you know . . . ) can meander in metaphor. I confess that I have tried to take certain matters into my own hands, and they are not matters for my hands yet. I am not sorry for that either, God. It is my nature, and you gave that to me. I have no desire to be otherwise, nor do you call me to be otherwise, or us to be otherwise. Thank you for that nature. Truly. Anyway, “sorry” is not a confession. Confession is what I am doing without a trace of sorrow; it is a statement of the truth, of how things are now, and that they are not as I desire.

They are not as you desire either, God. I do know this. But your vision is beyond mine and your will and your desire unfold as we are ready and as needed. I really gotta get that under my skin and on my skin and feel it. So, I suppose that is it: I ain’t feelin’ the unfolding, and maybe it is because of the almost all-pervasive depth of this deliciously sweet, so so painfully beautiful, exquisite joy and hope that I do feel. It’s bone crushing and soul soothing at once. Always. It keeps me alive, especially so because it is your gift I know. And you know that I just want to get on with it, with the opening of your gift and your gifts, even though it is not even Christmas time. So yeah, it’s a confession.

Oh well, I am out of words.

Here are a couple of Eric Whitacre pieces that can communicate what I am trying to say to you. The first is Lux Arumque, and when the soprano goes high, oh my God! thank you for that.

The second is this:

I am thankful for the jauntiness of the lalala section somewhere around 2:30, but God, thank you for it all.

Thank you for it all . . .

Help me please to be a better patient. Thank you for the nice amenities in the waiting room and your clear directions for how to get here. Furthermore, thank you for your kind words that it is a quite serious condition, of course, but that you have taken care of it already. I just need to keep taking this prescription. No refill, right? Please?

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