Sing We Now of Waiting

How Waiting Changes and Changes Us

This Advent my waiting creatively includes the intentional engagement of all five senses. Awareness and appreciation of my senses has enhanced my creativity and changed my perspective on waiting. For most of my life the winter holiday season, beginning with Thanksgiving and culminating with New Year’s has been emotionally charged, filled with memories of loss and grief, unrealistic and unmet expectations. In my younger years, Christmas deepened my depression to the point where I’d often be hospitalized by late January. Learning more about the senses and how to engage them is a lesson on managing emotions and holding memories in ways that lead to healing rather than despair.

As holiday memories come to the surface, I allow myself to not only feel them, but also to see, to smell, to taste, to touch, and to hear what they bring. With some memories one sense is most profound. With others it is a mixture of all five.

Christmas Eve was the “big” celebration of my childhood. More festive and fun than Christmas Day. It started with church. Together with family—parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents, distant relatives and friends—singing hymns and lighting candles. After the service everyone headed my great-grandparents’ apartment. It was a good size unit, but I’m sure we exceeded the fire code capacity limits.

There were lights on the bushes and trees driving in. Every building in the complex had a Santa on the roof. My great-grandparents’ place was brightly lit. The tree was small, which made the enormous pile of presents seem even bigger.

Dinner was always first. Served potluck style. The table had all the leaves open making room for the myriad of menu items. The main entree was an over-baked pre-baked ham with one pineapple slice and a cherry on top. Side dishes included scalloped potatoes, meatballs, ham roll ups (my favorite) and Jell-O filled with carrots (my least favorite), green bean casserole, extra sweet sweet pickles, and whatever random recipes people brought.

The china cabinet was transformed into a bakery counter. Filled with cookies and cakes and pies and cans of whipped toppings. And candy. My great-grandpa had a wild sweet tooth and Christmas tasted like Halloween. Orange slices, seafoam, marshmallow peanut clusters, peanut brittle, fudge, chocolate covered coffee beans.

After everyone was stuffed from the feast it was time for presents. Before presents were handed out, all the great-grandchildren (my generation) were invited to sing. I dreaded this part. I was afraid and ashamed of my own voice. It had long been a source of jokes and ridicule. It was too deep or not girlie enough. Even with other kids in the choir, I was not one to sing where anyone could hear.

One year, I think I was in second grade, I wanted to give it a try. I picked a song months in advance. I practiced. And practiced. I even made props to add to the performance (also something to hide behind). I didn’t tell anyone my plan.

When Christmas Eve came my anxiety increased. The waiting through church and then during dinner and dessert was too much. When my great-grandpa pulled out the recorder to save the songs for future listening, I froze. I can’t do this. After another cousin sang her song to thunderous applause, I knew I couldn’t do it. My props stayed in the closet with my coat and the song never left my lungs.

This wasn’t the first or only time waiting changed my plans or dulled my enthusiasm or dimmed my light.

I write a lot about my great-grandma and the special connection we shared. She is a frequent muse in my poems and stories, and sermon illustrations. Her presence in my life was undeniably powerful in the simplest of ways. She was gentle. Loving. Kind. Affirming. Safe. She taught me about God and faith. I trusted her and she trusted me.

In November of 1996, as I was navigating life after high school—dazed and confused—my great-grandma fell and broke her hip. At 90 years old, she survived the hip replacement surgery, but the recovery was too much for her aging body. She developed pneumonia and the end came quick. The waiting was the hardest part. The waiting changed me.

I worked at the hospital where she was a patient. I visited her on my lunch break and before and after my shift. More often than not she was sleeping. I’d softly touch her arm to let her know I was there. I found comfort being near her. Sometimes I’d hum lowly as a way to pray and pass the time. One time she heard me and opened her eyes long enough to smile. I reached out to put my hand in hers. She gripped mine in return.

And then something moved me to sing. Audibly enough for her to hear. I wasn’t fearful of my own voice. Or worried she would judge my sound or tone or that someone else would walk in. I started with verses from some of her favorite church hymns. And then, to my own surprise, on a strangely warm day in early November, I started to sing the Christmas classic, Away in a Manger. All the verses I could remember. She leaned forward to touch my face with her cold smooth hands that even in the hospital still smelled like her special powder. She whispered “I love you” and went back to sleep. And I continued singing.

That was our last time together. She died a few days later after returning to the nursing home. Family dynamics made it harder to see her there. I once regretted not seeing her again. But now I give thanks for those hospital visits and the holy moments we shared alone.

I recently found a version of Away in a Manger on YouTube and listened on repeat. I cried. Tears of sadness and grief, joy and gratitude. I remembered my great-grandma and Christmas Eve celebrations. A family I’m no longer a part of and people who are no longer living. Traditions that have changed. The ways I have changed. The ways waiting has changed me. Sometimes, most times, for the better.

Waiting is hard. Weird. Messy. It’s loud. And silent. Lonely. And crowded. It magnifies our doubts and insecurities. It births our hopes and dreams. It leads to courage and creativity. It’s where we live life with all five senses. It’s how we find our voice and the grace to proudly share it. It’s a familiar song. One we forget we know. It’s the Christmas hymn we sing out of season at our great-grandma’s bedside when we’re 18 that we were too afraid to sing in front of the whole family when we were 7. It’s realizing we no longer want to hide behind props or masks or protective walls. It’s a reminder that we can survive what we might presently believe is beyond our ability or will to endure.

What does creatively waiting feel like, look like, smell like, taste like, and sound like for you?

How has your waiting changed?

How has waiting changed you?

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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