Isaac played normally all day after school. He had dinner at a friends house and when he came home, he went straight to the bathroom. He never mentioned that his stomach hurt or anything, just called my name to tell me that he had thrown up a few minutes later.
You know what it’s like when someone in your house gets sick? In our house, we all just wait. Wait for Isaac’s round two. Wait to see who’s going down next.
I hate waiting. I’m not a super impatient person, I don’t mind lines or traffic THAT much. But the anticipation of what is unknown: not my favorite.
I lay in my bed that night, my ears on ultrasonic mode, listening for any movement in the house. While I lay there, this idea of waiting ran through my head.
Last Friday in between posts about gun control and hugging kids tighter, I saw many posts that said something like, “Jesus, come quickly.”
Many of us are in this waiting period still. When our hearts are hurting, when we see how completely broken this world is, we wait. We wait, not so patiently, for God to come and make it right again.
In the middle of this Christmas season, I’m still filled with hope. People waited centuries for someone they would never meet to come and rescue them. Millions of people never knew the name of their rescuer, though they had faith that he would come. Centuries before, they called him Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace. They didn’t know the name his earthly father would obediently give him: Jesus.
It was a simpler time, but few would say a better time. God’s chosen people had been persecuted for centuries, as long as anyone could remember. But they remembered God’s promise, the word of the prophesies, that God would send a Messiah to save them all. They lived, day in and day out with the hope of the One.
But we know his name. We are waiting for him to come again, but we’re not waiting just in hopes. He has given us himself…