These people are waiting for the bus on a cold morning. We waited a long time.
The bus took me to a monastery in Cambridge, where I spent the day with monks. They are highly skilled at waiting. They are my mentors in the art of waiting.
At lunch with the monks, one eats in silence. When finished, one does not leap up and leave the room. Rather, one waits until everyone is finished, and the superior leads a final prayer.
I spent time that day preparing to speak a word of hope to people who are waiting. They’ve lost loved ones, and they are waiting for their souls to readjust, waiting to be able to continue life with a semblance of normalcy. They would gather in Storey Chapel at Mt. Auburn Cemetery and wait their turn to light a candle. I spend my day with the monks waiting for inspiration: what word do I have for them?
That evening, I waited again for the bus to take me back to Watertown. But it was snowing, and Mt. Auburn St. was dark, quiet, as muffled, though a blanket had been tossed over it. I didn’t mind waiting.
The next morning, I woke up later than I meant to, keeping someone waiting with whom I was meant to pray. I didn’t have to wait long to be forgiven for my trespass, which was a blessing.
What are you waiting for? And where? And with whom?