Nothing chaps my hide quite like ... doing nothing. Something in my DNA (or perhaps my parents' diapering technique) makes sitting still as onerous as scrubbing toilets to my psyche.
And yet, these days, I'm doing more "nothing" than I ever thought possible. Post surgery ... post surgery fatigue ... post fallout from ignoring post surgery fatigue ... these and other factors have lead to a second year of quietness the likes of which I've never experienced before.
I have duties, of course. Just not enough to make me feel useful. And each time I attempt to collect more, God installs a shimmering, unavoidable wall that says "No." Complain though I may, I find myself standing around, unsure what to do with my hands, an uncomfortable burden of guilt on my shoulders in place of the tasks that I carried before.
My friend, Lynn, knows this burden firsthand. Diagnosed with Lyme's Disease years ago, she spends most winters gritting her way through chronic pain, immobilized from all but the most basic of tasks, living in such a thick mental fog that daily decisions confound her. But all this pales next to the mental anguish Lynn has experienced as she's watched others carry (or drop) the responsibilities she so longs to lift.
It's culminated, more than once, in moments of intense soul-searching and doubt. But each time, Lynn has emerged with discoveries profound enough to shake my paradigms, too.
"I'm content," she says now, as we walk slowly around our mile loop. "I'm at peace." She describes the freedom she experiences as she settles into the life she cannot avoid living, with all its limitations and, surprisingly, blessings. She details the joy of praying, uninterrupted, for those she loves. The silence that provides a backdrop on which her Creator can paint. The sweetness of shared time with her kids. Guilt no longer hounds her when she's indisposed. Instead, she trusts her Maker and His plan for her today, her tomorrow, her eternity.
And then, after recounting her own blessings, Lynn turns to me. "What about yours?" she asks. "You don't have to wait for them, you know. What blessings has He given you now, in this life?"
I groan, thinking of my undercurrent of discontent as I wait for God fill up my schedule. I'm not sure how to answer, so I promise to give it some thought, and we walk on. Lynn's not afraid to wait for my response, and, I realize with a start, neither am I. We round the last corner toward home, our noses nipping in the late winter cold, and I smile. A bit of Lynn's peace has seeped across to me, after all. Perhaps these quiet days, the biggest surprise of my life, have been sent to teach me the joy of surrendering my agenda to God's plans, greater than all of my good ones. Perhaps, if I just wait without struggling, I'll hear what He's been saying all along. Perhaps the wait is the blessing of this season, after all.
I can hardly wait to find out.
