Just Wait a Minute

By Melanie P. Moore

I’m not very good at waiting. Not at traffic lights, not for an elevator, and certainly not for a delayed flight at DFW! If I’m honest, I’m not even good at waiting for someone to stop speaking so I can blurt out whatever “Squirrel!” thing has popped into my head. When I worked in a corporate office, I tapped my foot and clinched my teeth while waiting the entire 60 seconds it took the giant photocopier to make 20 copies. Now I can barely stand waiting a few nanoseconds for the results of my Google search. For perspective, a nanosecond is one billionth of a second. A human eye blink takes about 330 million nanoseconds.

I think it’s fair to say that none of us are good at waiting, especially not in Mopac traffic or in the checkout line at HEB. In fact, we’d rather scan and bag groceries, fumbling for produce codes, than wait in line. Most every grocery store has expanded their “self” or “assisted” checkout capacity to meet the demand.

So when we come to Advent—a liturgical season that is pretty much only about waiting, what do we do? We make Advent calendars! What started as a daily ritual to meditatively prepare for Christmas has become an industry to entertain us, or distract us, or both. A history of the Advent calendar—from chalk on a wall in the 19^th century, to German cardboard, to 1971 when Cadbury added chocolate—can be found here. And what a slippery, capitalistic slope it’s been. I see that the New York Times has now called Advent the “pregame” to Christmas. Every major brand has an Advent calendar to “surprise” you each day with anything from chocolate and tea to cosmetics and whiskey. There’s even a Lego Harry Potter Advent Calendar, trademark, trademark, trademark.

What does waiting require from us? I’ve recently learned from our son Quinn that waiting requires at least one thing. Quinn, whose superpower is autism, was pacing in the backyard—not so patiently—while I grilled dinner. Granted we were all hungry, rapidly approaching “hangry.” I opened the grill to douse a flame.

“Is it ready yet?” he asked, for the umpteenth time, which irritated the crap out of me.

“Hang on,” I snapped.

“Let go,” Quinn said, mimicking my tone.

And there it was. Let it go. Whatever had me all twisted up in that moment, let it go. Later, when I generalized that lesson to address my own impatience in traffic, letting go turned waiting into a meditation of sorts. Not much, and not for long because the Land Rover behind me honked. In my reverie, I’d missed the nanosecond the light turned green.

May you find a “let go” in your “hang on” moments this Advent season.