Waiting All Wrong
There was a woman I admired. She was ancient and kind. She was spunky and made the best cinnamon rolls the world had ever seen.
Refrain:
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
That shadows a dry, thirsty land;
He hideth my life in the depths of His love,
And covers me there with His hand,
And covers me there with His hand.
A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
He taketh my burden away,
He holdeth me up and I shall not be moved,
He giveth me strength as my day.
With numberless blessings each moment He crowns,
And filled with His fullness divine,
I sing in my rapture, oh, glory to God!
For such a Redeemer as mine.
When clothed with His brightness transported I rise
To meet Him in clouds of the sky,
His perfect salvation, His wonderful love,
I’ll shout with the millions on high.
When I was about 17 Mrs. Helen became one of the faces I looked forward to seeing on Sunday mornings. She was one of the remarkable women of G-d who beamed with love for others. When my mother was recovering from a medical procedure Helen made our family food, including almost 50 of her world class cinnamon rolls.
It was one of these Sundays when I was asked for the first time if I had a "special someone" in the way old people become hopeless romantics wanting to see the love stories of young people.
There were a few crushes I had had, but I still felt like I was hidden away from anyone's notice by the hand of G-d. Almost as though I had a mark of someone else on me that caused anyone I was interested in to back off or bow out. My eyes were ever searching and creating scenarios of what my love story might be, how I might meet the man of my dreams. "Once upon a dream..." I whole-heartedly anticipated love at first sight.
As we were talking before church service Helen told me that she wanted to make cinnamon rolls at my wedding. The warmth of her classic smile in her yellow Sunday dress, I smiled gratefully at her. Truly, I wanted nothing so much as the honor to have Helen's cinnamon rolls on the tables overshadowing the cake.
Five years ago the conclusion of a tragedy left me without my darling Helen. Some months before her passing Helen had a stroke. She was placed in a hospice care that seemed alive with the Charles Dickens debtor's prison.
Several times my father and I visited Helen and sang the hymns she loved, I held her hand as she lay in the bed. There was a woman in the hall who told me she was a witch and knew several spells for her enemies. There was a veteran that told dirty jokes almost like he didn't understand them anymore.
Helen was bunked with a woman with long white hair who moaned continuously, she only stopped while we sang 'He Hideth my Soul' which was Helen's favorite hymn:
A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
A wonderful Savior to me;
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
Where rivers of pleasure I see.
A wonderful Savior to me;
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
Where rivers of pleasure I see.
Refrain:
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
That shadows a dry, thirsty land;
He hideth my life in the depths of His love,
And covers me there with His hand,
And covers me there with His hand.
A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
He taketh my burden away,
He holdeth me up and I shall not be moved,
He giveth me strength as my day.
With numberless blessings each moment He crowns,
And filled with His fullness divine,
I sing in my rapture, oh, glory to God!
For such a Redeemer as mine.
When clothed with His brightness transported I rise
To meet Him in clouds of the sky,
His perfect salvation, His wonderful love,
I’ll shout with the millions on high.
I remember kissing Helen's forehead before I left, tears in her eyes thankful for the company.
Her husband complained that with Helen not at home no one cooked for him or did the laundry. Glen was selfish and racist, there were many things he said that Helen would smack him for. She loved him though. I always thought it was perplexing how a woman like Helen could marry Glen. She told me once how they met, she was working at a local grocer and he saw her and said to his friend, "that's the woman I am going to marry." He walked up to her, said hello, asked her out on a date; the rest fell into place the way it always does.
I think they were married for more than fifty years.
One day while Helen was recovering she was brought into the garden to walk, it was late summer and I remember for all that the hospice lacked it at least had roses. While she was taken outside her attendant left her, Helen fell.
The fall broke her hip and all the progress she had made was dramatically reversed. In October Helen died. I came home and remember mom telling me that Helen was gone. My father let me sit by him and weep on his chest. The tears wouldn't stop. I soaked his shirt right through with the grief in my heart.
Soon Helen's memorial took place. I was shocked by how Glen went about it. Helen used to bake for the memorials of other congregants, but at hers there was nothing at all. When asked if he wanted to say a few words Glen shook his head. There was a time for anyone to speak who wanted to share about what Helen meant to them.
I prepared a beautiful speech in my mind, a C.S. Lewis quote on mortality, and something about how she is now more alive than we have ever been. When I stood up and held the heavy weight of the microphone in my hands the words vanished. I choked back a sob and could hardly say the few words I got out, "I love Helen very much, when I grow up I want to be like her." I sat back down and finished a box of Kleenex. Dad and I sang Helen's hymn and the service was ended. It was so swift, I had wanted to hear Glen say something. I hated him for being silent, I hated myself for saying so little.
After we came home I asked my mum the question that had been weighing on my mind, "Did I fail Helen?" she asked what I meant, "She wanted to make cinnamon rolls at my wedding, now she never will. I am not even dating anyone. I feel like I failed her." Mum drew me into a hug while I cried some more, "Tirzah Lee, Helen wanted to make cinnamon rolls at your wedding because she loves you, not because she wanted you to get married before she died, just because she wanted to show you she loved you."
Around that same year both of my great-grandmothers also died. One of the last times I saw Grandmama I was almost 16, "Have you kissed a boy yet, dear?" I shook my head, "Oh you better fix that before you turn 16 or you'll disgrace the family." there was for her a notion that a woman was nothing without a man. I told her it might be a longer wait than that since I planned on having my first kiss at the altar. She rolled her eyes at me and changed the subject. As I stood mourning Helen in the kitchen I was now 18 and this was the age I had planned to fall in love and "fill the gap" between my Bubbe's marriage at 17 and my mum's at 19.
Those were years that I had read and approved of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, I was in love with love. I did not realize until my second year at college when I was 21 that I had believed Grandmama's notion: I thought I was a failure because I wasn't married. At least six generations of women in my family had been married and had a baby by 20, and how Grandmama might roll in her ashes to know that at 23 I still haven't kissed anyone.
But a reality came home, the unpredictable nature of timing. In the last year I have been stretched in ways I never anticipated. Not only did I live on my own for several months, and battle a dark season of depression, but I also watched from afar the destruction of my entire hometown, my home with it. In my home beside the stacks of books, the box that contained a vintage wedding dress I hoped to wear down the aisle as I at last took that first kiss in as a promise.
Ashes, timing, patience.
One of the most remarkable things about time and seasons is that they pass. Of coarse when you are living in the dreariest and most disheartening of seasons you may want to give up. Winter is dark and cold and lonely, everything seems dead and starving.
Yet, if you look for it you will see the promises of Spring. The snow drops peak up, green and white, defiant with the honest presence of hope. One day the waiting will be over, and I think I will look back and see that I had been waiting all wrong.
My eyes ever rolling and my thoughts ever searching, the list ever growing, and when people hear I have been "waiting" and know that I haven't kissed anyone for that very purpose they will think I have been waiting very well. But the truth is I have been hidden, in the cleft of the rock by a merciful hand, a jealous hand that sees my restlessness and knows it will harm me to give me what I wanted.
It would harm a man to hold the weight of these expectations on his shoulders, my "home" will at times prove to be less of a dreamboat and more of a fallible man. G-d knows that the "waiting" I did for a fallible man is not the "waiting" I ought to have been doing anyways. Marriage and motherhood are not the purposes meant to fill up my identity and be my fulfillment. Those are small things, things that might change or be hindered, or may never come to pass.
When we realize we have been waiting all wrong we can ask ourselves what it means to be waiting right, and what we are waiting for. This is not a passing and changeable thing that we are waiting for, it will not die, or age, or rust. Nor will it walk out, overlook, or abandon. We are waiting for something good and perfect, everlasting and beautiful. We are waiting for the King.
As we wait and the winter gets darker and bleaker, look for the signs and you will see proof.
"Aslan is on the move."
I think they were married for more than fifty years.
One day while Helen was recovering she was brought into the garden to walk, it was late summer and I remember for all that the hospice lacked it at least had roses. While she was taken outside her attendant left her, Helen fell.
The fall broke her hip and all the progress she had made was dramatically reversed. In October Helen died. I came home and remember mom telling me that Helen was gone. My father let me sit by him and weep on his chest. The tears wouldn't stop. I soaked his shirt right through with the grief in my heart.
Soon Helen's memorial took place. I was shocked by how Glen went about it. Helen used to bake for the memorials of other congregants, but at hers there was nothing at all. When asked if he wanted to say a few words Glen shook his head. There was a time for anyone to speak who wanted to share about what Helen meant to them.
I prepared a beautiful speech in my mind, a C.S. Lewis quote on mortality, and something about how she is now more alive than we have ever been. When I stood up and held the heavy weight of the microphone in my hands the words vanished. I choked back a sob and could hardly say the few words I got out, "I love Helen very much, when I grow up I want to be like her." I sat back down and finished a box of Kleenex. Dad and I sang Helen's hymn and the service was ended. It was so swift, I had wanted to hear Glen say something. I hated him for being silent, I hated myself for saying so little.
After we came home I asked my mum the question that had been weighing on my mind, "Did I fail Helen?" she asked what I meant, "She wanted to make cinnamon rolls at my wedding, now she never will. I am not even dating anyone. I feel like I failed her." Mum drew me into a hug while I cried some more, "Tirzah Lee, Helen wanted to make cinnamon rolls at your wedding because she loves you, not because she wanted you to get married before she died, just because she wanted to show you she loved you."
Around that same year both of my great-grandmothers also died. One of the last times I saw Grandmama I was almost 16, "Have you kissed a boy yet, dear?" I shook my head, "Oh you better fix that before you turn 16 or you'll disgrace the family." there was for her a notion that a woman was nothing without a man. I told her it might be a longer wait than that since I planned on having my first kiss at the altar. She rolled her eyes at me and changed the subject. As I stood mourning Helen in the kitchen I was now 18 and this was the age I had planned to fall in love and "fill the gap" between my Bubbe's marriage at 17 and my mum's at 19.
Those were years that I had read and approved of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, I was in love with love. I did not realize until my second year at college when I was 21 that I had believed Grandmama's notion: I thought I was a failure because I wasn't married. At least six generations of women in my family had been married and had a baby by 20, and how Grandmama might roll in her ashes to know that at 23 I still haven't kissed anyone.
But a reality came home, the unpredictable nature of timing. In the last year I have been stretched in ways I never anticipated. Not only did I live on my own for several months, and battle a dark season of depression, but I also watched from afar the destruction of my entire hometown, my home with it. In my home beside the stacks of books, the box that contained a vintage wedding dress I hoped to wear down the aisle as I at last took that first kiss in as a promise.
Ashes, timing, patience.
One of the most remarkable things about time and seasons is that they pass. Of coarse when you are living in the dreariest and most disheartening of seasons you may want to give up. Winter is dark and cold and lonely, everything seems dead and starving.
Yet, if you look for it you will see the promises of Spring. The snow drops peak up, green and white, defiant with the honest presence of hope. One day the waiting will be over, and I think I will look back and see that I had been waiting all wrong.
My eyes ever rolling and my thoughts ever searching, the list ever growing, and when people hear I have been "waiting" and know that I haven't kissed anyone for that very purpose they will think I have been waiting very well. But the truth is I have been hidden, in the cleft of the rock by a merciful hand, a jealous hand that sees my restlessness and knows it will harm me to give me what I wanted.
It would harm a man to hold the weight of these expectations on his shoulders, my "home" will at times prove to be less of a dreamboat and more of a fallible man. G-d knows that the "waiting" I did for a fallible man is not the "waiting" I ought to have been doing anyways. Marriage and motherhood are not the purposes meant to fill up my identity and be my fulfillment. Those are small things, things that might change or be hindered, or may never come to pass.
When we realize we have been waiting all wrong we can ask ourselves what it means to be waiting right, and what we are waiting for. This is not a passing and changeable thing that we are waiting for, it will not die, or age, or rust. Nor will it walk out, overlook, or abandon. We are waiting for something good and perfect, everlasting and beautiful. We are waiting for the King.
As we wait and the winter gets darker and bleaker, look for the signs and you will see proof.
"Aslan is on the move."
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