Waiting Softly in the Cornfield

There's a softness to waiting for yourself if you do it right.

I often don't.

More likely I'm pressing impatience into it, worrying it to go faster, be sooner, come more quickly.  The waiting becomes something to conquer, and if not that, endure.  The waiting becomes its own tyrant, oblivious of the soul that needs the time.  My soul.  My own self.  My own valuable, exhausted, treasured self that just.  Needs.  Time.

Softness comes in pausing in the moments when nothing is happening and letting that be okay.  Softness comes in turning down the noise of ridiculous expectation and outrageous demand. Softness comes in naming and embracing weakness.  Humanity in its frailer moments, being real.

To do it right you have to stop.  You have to give permission for less.  You have to ask for help.  And space.  You have to forgive if they don't understand and just be gone anyways.  To do it right you have to trust that the One who is softest of all knows what you need and is already providing exactly that.  Even as you wait.

This business of forming a spirit is a long thing.  It's drawn out and stretched out and works out its own ways of waiting and becoming in its own sweet (truly) time.

"Just be still.  Wait here with Me," He says, "And remember that I'm God, and I'm for you.  We'll get there when the time is completed."  At least, that's what I heard out in the cornfield the other day, under a wide sky of nothing.  Nothing, being everything.

And so, I wait softly.