by Jerri Akins

Created on: July 11, 2008

WAITING...

Why does it so often seem that living life is just killing
time? I do the same thing every night wash my face,
brush my teeth, comb my hair, use the bathroom, and go to
bed. I get up in the morning, use the bathroom, shower,
get dressed, have coffee with my boyfriend, and go to work.
The next day I do it all over again. The details are
endless, the repetition unrelenting. Stuck on replay. Just

waiting. For what?

It's my moments of seeing my grandchildren that it makes
sense. Then I'm not waiting. I understand. It's when
someone makes me laugh until tears roll down my face that
things make sense and the mind-dulling repetition stops.
When I have a mental movie-shot of my grandson riding a
broken cart down a hill, then I forget to think about how
many trips I've made to the bathroom today.

What is God's point is making this life so repetition-
dependent? Three times a day we fuel our bodies. Every
day we deadhead the flowers and water them. Meanwhile, my
sisters and brothers are in another state, my children and
grandchildren in another house where I can't see their
faces and hear their laughter, and I'm taking care of
endless details that matter not one whit to me. The things
that matter the most I can't seem to reach.

Why is my life on hold while my body ages? Am I just
waiting for those moments when I can see my grandchildren?
Waiting to be rescued? Waiting for someone to tell me the
meaning of life? Waiting for someone to tell me that it's
okay to leave the man I'm with, even though there's nothing
major that's "wrong?" Can a person really die from
boredom? If I'm this bored with my life this
relationship am I really living? Am I walking dead? Am I
on life-support?

I heard it said once that we each have about 75 winters, 75
springs, 75 summers, and 75 falls. How can they go so
slowly while I'm waiting, and yet so quickly when I think
how long I've waited? And what, please God, am I waiting
for?

Could it be that You are waiting on me to do something?
Could this day, just like yesterday, be one more chance for
me to take hold, break out, get a clue, grab the life raft
you keep throwing? Could it be that you're as bored with
me as I have been with the life you gave me? Could it be
that 365 repetitious days are really 365 do-overs?

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