The Waiting Room

My soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.
(Psalm 130:6)

I do not like to sit in waiting rooms,
At doctors’ offices,
Or the dentist’s.
There I fidget with my fingers,
Worrying about my blood pressure,
Or a cavity.
I thumb through magazines from the fall.
And, fight the urge to pull out my phone.
Today, the entire world is a waiting room.

As I sit in it,
I wonder not about my body’s health, But my soul’s.
If I could see my soul’s refection
In a mirror of sorts,
Or, if I could take it in to see a specialist,
What would I see?
Mortality?
My soul makes not a peep.

“All are from women,
Have few days and are full of turmoil,” Job says.
Like a flower, we wither.
In the impurity of this life,
Death slowly soils our existence.
Then, we fade
Like the afternoon sun.

“I wish you would hide me in the underworld,”
I plead alongside Job.
If people die, will they live again?
That’s what I think of in the waiting room
Along with my soul.
Silently, we wait for God’s reply,
More than watchmen for the morning,
More than watchmen for the morning.

Others point to mercy here,
But in the obscurity of death,
Fear approaches.
It shrivels me up.
I feel like a parched riverbed.
The weatherman said,
“No rain today.”
Still I wait and I watch,
Together with my soul.
If people die will they live again?

How did Joseph and Nicodemus respond?
They did not wait.
They acted!
With care and without hope.
Certainly sorrowful.
No mirth.
Dutifully though with oils and linen.
Like, washing someone’s feet,
Lovingly, extravagantly, but without expectation.

The women though, They waited.
Out of sight,
They waited.
Almost silently,
They waited.
Quietly crying,
They waited.
Like watchmen,
They waited.
Like Job,
They waited.
Like my soul,
They waited.
They waited
Wondering...

If people die will they live again?
Will he live again?
A human dies and the body remains.
A person expires but,
Where is he?
One is chopped down,
And hauled away.
Why then, are we waiting?

Something remains.
Nothing, really...
Save for a delicately wrapped body.

As Joseph and his companion leave,
I tarry...
With the women and my soul.
“Jesus died, will he live again?”
I sit in the waiting room wondering.

And, at that moment,
Of all the times,
My soul dares say something.
What?
I listen carefully.

“All the days of my service, I would wait
Until restoration took place.

“Wait
With me
For him.”

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