wait

I learned to wait in Kenya, sitting in the shade of trees, being, breathing, until the time comes. Sometimes for the matatu to finally guzzle and cajole itself to a start, sometimes for the quorum to slowly make their way over the bulbous stones to the collection of chairs wobbling on uneven ground circled into a meeting place, sometimes for clarity to christen what first seems chaos.

It was here I also learned to wait with, holding a wheezing, dying Evans on the floor of Moi Hospital, breathing into staying, with arms wrapped around him, as his own breath, tremblingly, terrifyingly, waned.

All through this life, I have waited.

I have waited on many different lands and in many different tongues, as the little legs of children meandered, motivated by their unending curiosity. I have waited for striving humans to evolve into their commitment to living out kindness, social justice, and compassion. I have waited for vulnerable words to come bravely fumbling from the mouth of a loved one. I have waited for results I knew I didn’t want to receive, for the moment that would render everything else a before or an after, for the final exhale and the first gasp.

And on the shores of the island of Lesvos, Greece, I waited all night, adding logs to sustain the warmth of the fire for any who might dare courageous to seek safety across those darkened seas, teaching me of the literal, physical act of holding space for others, for yourself, for your shared humanity. Now, in Indianapolis, I wait at the door of the shelter, a respite and resting place to those whose homes have been torn into violence, as the children scurry off the school bus, laughing in any small, real way with them as they wait for security to screen school bags for what weapons a five year may sneak in, teaching me of waiting gracefully even when you wish to skip the line, or that the line would never have to exist to begin with.

And recently, walking three hours through the village to reach home, when asked what he would tell his thirteen year old self, a friend said: “I would tell myself to wait. Wait, you’ll survive all this. Wait, you’ll see.”

Now here I sit, waiting for the plane to lift its wheels away from Kenyan soils, carrying me away from this home place, this best-self place I so love. Now here I sit, waiting to feel ready to say goodbye again. Usually, this is a wait, sitting on the floor of the Nairobi airport into the middle of the night until the first step of a long, long journey begins, I hate. It has always been a gap between being here and being elsewhere, being in one home and another, that has lit up the impatience within me; if I’m not going to be here, if I’ve already said goodbye to the people, places, work I love, if I’m going to return to a family and space of great comfort, I want it to go ahead and happen. It’s a wait I’ve never before seen as the same as those other kinds of waiting, those waitings for and with and alongside I’ve found so teaching, so growing, so beautiful, so necessarily human; this is a wait I’ve wished away.

And yet here I sit, waiting for the call to board the plane, waiting to realize it’s leaving time and to feel at peace with that, and I realize: this time, this is the waiting I knew, somewhere deep down I had avoided looking into until this moment, I needed.

Here I sit, on the linoleum tile of the Nairobi airport floor, thankful for the pause of this moment, for this moment of transition, this liminal time I’ve formerly considered a hated wait, for this given space to wait on my self, to wait for my heart to pull itself to rest where my feet are, to wait on my soul to slow pull itself into parallel with my boarding pass.

So now here I sit, waiting.

Wait, you’ll see.