On Waiting

My soul aches with the weariness of waiting.

First it was the years of slowly realizing that we were changing, and there was something else meant for us, the waiting for the “what’s next?” to be revealed. Then a year of piecing together that answer and waiting to move. Then we arrived in Maine with a small uhaul truck and a temporary job but no home and no idea what exactly life was going to look like for us here. A kind offer from relatives, a storage unit, and a trip to the beach later, and we were home.

Well, home but not home.

As we grew familiar and fell in love with Maine, we couldn’t feel truly settled until we’d claimed our own piece of it as ours, a place to put down roots as a family. We found it just at the end of the summer, when the seats around the evening campfire began to creep closer and the mornings sometimes came with sweaters. But then—four months went by. Six closing dates. And finally signed papers in our hands (and a much lighter savings account) by the time Christmas decorations were appearing around town.

As the new year began, so did renovations. And as the winter dragged on longer and longer, so did renovations. Our excitement dropped with the temperatures and my days felt frozen in depression and fatigue. The longer we spent away from a place we could call our own, the more it felt like a piece of us was missing. The undercurrent of “home” seemed gone deep beneath the bleak, icy “stuckness” as four more months trudged by. It sometimes seems silly to realize how hard those months felt, since we have had such a great living situation with our relatives, but neither of us realized how long this process would end up being, or how hard the waiting would be.

Now, the winter is finally giving way to spring. As we round the corner approaching our first full year in Maine, a year that we never anticipated spending still uprooted, suspended between the home we left and the one we want, we can feel it. The pain of the dark and cold months trying to hang on to hope is turning back into the excitement we first felt in the beginning.

The floors are slick and shining. Soon the walls will sparkle with new paint, and the bathroom is coming together. Spring is breathing new life into this house, as well as our waiting-weary hearts. This season of waiting has served as a reminder that the longing in our hearts only points beyond this home toward our Forever Home, when all things will be made new, we will no longer grow weary of waiting, and the great work that continues in us will finally be complete.

The pain and barrenness of the just-before is only preparing us to bloom.

We are almost home.

Kristi Clark