Labor Pains of Advent

Waiting is Agony

After all of the fights my Marine has won, he’s now unable to fight anymore. Last Thursday he suffered a massive stroke, and it’s not survivable. We don’t know when or how he’ll draw his last breath. Could be a few days or a few minutes.

In Advent, we talk a lot about waiting. As we anticipate the arrival of Jesus, it’s a time to try to withstand the awful Not Yet. Like children in December, I’m in that anxious space that feels like it will never end.

If you’re a parent you know it’s really hard to keep your child distracted and occupied in the run-up to the Big Day. If you’ve given birth, you understand the agony of labor and the way it makes you want to give up just before you get to the good part. They call it transition. In transition, there’s a lot of waiting—not to mention screaming and if you’re me, a flurry of curse words.

That’s me in this Advent season.

I know we’re supposed to be introspective and quiet during this season. So why do I feel like shouting and begging and kicking God in the shins?

In high school, I wrote a poem about waiting. One line says, “I’m waiting, and the waiting is anoxia, like brother holding your head underwater or children kicking the back of your airplane seat.”

The waiting itself feels like torture. But then I remember that I’m waiting for my husband to die.

I hate this for me and for all who’ve lost or are about to lose their loved ones.

If I dare to go inside with my NotYet chains rattling, I rediscover the center. If we are made of love and that’s all there really is, then the next best gift God gives us is memory.

Forty-seven (almost) years of memories visit me in my sleep, invade my waking thoughts. Funny how all our spats and disagreements seem so small now. I tell God I’d endure a lifetime of Brad buying flashlights and sneaking smokes in exchange for a little more time. And right now, time is all I have.

I visit my husband in the hospital, but I can’t stand a vigil. Watching him, his gorgeous blue eyes closed, his rhythmic snore, his paralyzed body jerk, just tries to erase all my memories. This man is strong, proud, drop-dead handsome. I want to put that in a box and tape it shut.

So here, at Advent, the waiting really does feel anoxic. One second I plead for a miracle, the next I want it to end right this second. But hidden in my heart, love refuses to stop beating. I have loved him well and will never forget that.

I won’t ever be the same after this Advent. Loss forces us to see the world differently. My prayer is to be more love for more people. The funny thing is, if you point your heart toward love, it crowds out anger and bitterness and gives you prisma-colored glasses to see God everywhere you go.

If you’re feeling like all the air has been sucked from you, as you wait or grieve or try to make sense of it all, remember that we are made of love. That love can never be broken, never separated from us. Love with every fiber of your being—I swear it helps the waiting.

Smile at strangers, help those who need help, be generous. Let cars cut you off and invite that pushy woman to cut ahead in line. As a cat I know named Cory used to say, “See Mr. Jesus everywhere.” He’s coming, I promise. Just Not Yet.