Waiting for the Iron Spider

The Iron SpiderWe are a people that loathe waiting.

It matters little what we are waiting for…

We tap our toes, check our phones and sigh just a hair over silent.

All in the great hope that someone will realize the pressing need to blessedly hurry the hoot up.

Waiting is just not our thing.

In lines. In car loops. In “waiting” rooms.

Which may I, once again, just gently ask…

Is it not fairly ironic that we moan and grouse in a room that warns us we will have to wait?

Bless us all.

We. Just. Suck. At. It.

Now, I will gladly throw myself under the waiting bus.

I’ve waited quite horribly…

For babies.  For healing.  For the answers I want.

Toe-tapping.  Cell phone checking.  And per-a-Sara-original, irritating humming.

All working in tandem to usher in my great need to have what I want when I want it.

And in the words of the great Veruca Salt, “I want it NOW!”

But lately, even as I find myself still waiting on and for many things, I can’t help but stop dead in my tracks, abandon the humming and think of the Iron Spider.

This guy or rather this guy’s outfit came to live with us one fine September day.

It was after a rather random Costco outing where my son eyed a genuine Iron Spider costume, complete with built-in abs. So I sneakily purchased said costume. And then hid it in what I thought was a secure location until Christmas day.

But two hours later, he found it.

Now a few years earlier, I would have lamented that I had single-handedly ruined the magic of Christmas. But with years of experience in picking the worst present hiding places EVER, I just shrugged my shoulders and said,

“Buddy, that suit is for Christmas, but you can come visit it any time you like.”

AND HE DID.

Nearly every day.

He would sit on a little step stool by the suit, talk about the adventures they would have together and then just before he stood up, he would gently touch the sleeve and say,

“See you soon, Iron Spider.”

Now you would think with such day-after-day monotony, my little guy’s reaction to the costume would have been mediocre, at best, come Christmas morning.  But it seemed that this familiarity made the gift all the more worthwhile. Ripping into the wrapping paper, pulling the suit from its hanger, he ran around the house, finally able to live out all the adventures they had talked about for months.

My son had found the joy in waiting.

He had discovered that when you wait for that which is worthwhile, you don’t fret and fuss.

You dream and anticipate.

You say, “I know the road is long, but man, what’s coming is going to blow your ever-loving mind!”

And so today, I wait.

No toe-tapping. No cell phone checking. No annoying humming.

I simply stop, close my eyes for a moment and dream a bit.

I hold tiny hands, kissing them madly and gently all at once.  I feel the stubble of my Grandpa’s face rub roughly against my own.  And I smell the scent of snickerdoodles in my Great-Grandma’s hair as she holds me close.

I run boldly without falling for days, for months, for years.  I leap, I dance, I move so gracefully I cannot dare to open my eyes for fear I will wake up.  I am strong and whole and complete.

And it is in these moments that I remember what I am waiting for is the embrace of a Savior.

A hold so fulfilling, so beautiful, so perfect that it is worth the wait.

In lines.  In car loops.  In waiting rooms.

In whatever place it so desperately hurts and groans and stretches.

Even there, friends, it will be worth it.

Even. There.

So today, let us stand in the place where we can open our eyes, rise from our step stools and confidently say,

“See you soon, Jesus. See you soon.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s