Waiting Room

She called it "the waiting room"
and a dozen scenes unfolded in my mind.

anticipation of a birth,
a loved one in surgery,
urgent care with a fever,
the ER with labored breathing...

Familiar feelings creep in,
the numbness,
ticking of the clock,
blaring TV talk show,
icy blasts of air conditioning,
piles of magazines looking back at me.

Our time in the waiting room stretches us, weakens us, grows us, strengthens us.

In the waiting room, we wait.
And we don't have anything to report.

"Thank you for checking in."
"Your prayers are appreciated."
"Nothing new to report."
"I'll let you know when I know."

The ache and stress of one more comment,
"Please, stop."
My heart can't bare it.
It feels like too much.
The weight of words are weighed by the ounce.

How are you? Never felt so personal.
Surviving. Thriving.
Getting by. Soaring.
I'm not sure what next week will bring.
We have enough for today.

It's today.
Not tomorrow.
But I keep going there.
Next week.
Next month.
Soon, it's the holiday season.

I need to be here.
Plan for there.

But we planned for here, for now.
This is all so... unexpected.
We planned again, in the thick of it.
And I have nothing more to tell you.

Because we are in the waiting room.
And so is she with her husband who left.
And they are too, with their foster kids.
And he is too while he awaits the notice.
They are waiting for the adoption placement.
She is trying to get by as a single Mom.
He doesn't understand the rejection.
And they just want the courts to make a decision already.
And she still hasn't come home.
She is using again...

I'm in this waiting room and while I wait,
I hear the moans and the aches of those around me.
They are waiting too,
for very different reasons.
We may never have met before,
but it's this waiting room that brought us here.

So, while I take a deep breath, I'll hand you my tissue.
I'll let my own tears stream as I rub your back and you weep,.

You, neighbor in the waiting room, scraped up enough pennies to get me a coffee.
You, neighbor, gave me a ride.
You brought me a meal.
You sent sons to mow my lawn.

In your brokenness, you have loved me well.
In my brokenness, I have learned love.

You expect no Thank You note.
I don't need you to know my name.
In this waiting room, together, we wait.