the work of waiting

I am 32 years old. I have been independent for a long time. I have been working my way up the ladder, through the ranks, whatever you want to call it, on my own for the past decade. I have been making the decisions, calling the shots for me. 

And then I met Zachary. 

Love does a lot of weird stuff to you. And one of the scariest is embracing your dependence upon another person.

In May, I left my job. A job that I had worked really hard to get, a job that I really loved. My days used to be really busy: meetings and coffees and tasks and preparation. But I left because I knew that my next job was going to be to support my husband.

Now, my only job is to wait.

For Zachary to get off of work.

For friendships to form.

For this pandemic to end.

For God to reveal the next thing.

Waiting in surely the hardest work of all because there isn’t much that I can do. I’ve been here before, employed by this waiting. These seasons are never easy because they’re murky and undefined, but this one feels different. I feel guilty not working by choice when so many people are desperate for work. I feel guilty lazing around and baking cookies while Zachary works hard to provide for us. I feel like, at 32, I should have answers and a plan. I don’t have either.

So for now, I wait because it’s all that I can do. And while waiting is my work, I want to do it well. How exactly I do that is still something I’m working through but I know that the process of waiting can’t be hurried through.