I wait for the Lord; my soul waits for him; in his word is my hope. Psalm 92:4
I wait alone in my room, my hands open, arms raised. I wait in silence while my husband and boys read books in the other room. “Brooksie, where is August’s nose?” I hear Chris say. “Do you see August’s nose?”
I wait as I read my little boy to sleep in his room and look around it in the dusk. How many more nights till he loses his room? 10 nights? I wait.
I wait while we search for a place to stay for the month of September. No, our landlord won’t extend our lease, so a temporary home with temporary dishes, suitcases and a bin of toys. We wait.
I wait to register August for preschool. The financial assistance program in San Francisco demands a proven place of residence. I have none, yet. I wait.
I wait for these last dinners with friends, this last potluck at the church. I wait to see people the last time or the second to last. The band-aid peels off slow. Too slow.
I wait for the heat to vaporize, to fizzle away and leave us comfortable. Some last night of play in the backyard, though I doubt it’s coming.
I wait expectantly, nervously. Some days excited, remembering the brightness, the coolness of San Francisco. Some days anxious, fearful of my kids running into busy streets, fearful of the difficulties of city-life, afraid for how I’ll suffer, worried about the constant foggy cold.
I wait because I’m turning 33 this week. A three and a three. Every birthday I count change. Three ago, I moved to San Francisco. The next Brooksie was only 10 weeks inside me. Last, I explored Austin two weeks into life here. This one now: I’m waiting. Hands open, arms raised.
My soul waits because all of this now is in-between. The longing and the coming to be. The hope that arrives in the word God speaks: how it clothes us, holds us, lets us fumble into what’s next.