The Deep Work of Waiting
Saturday mornings at our home are slow—and they almost always involve cinnamon rolls. Now please don’t misunderstand: I’m no baker. No pastry chef. I rarely touch a recipe that requires precise measuring or yeast. Our cinnamon rolls are store-bought in a can and ready in fifteen minutes or less.
But even so, the sweet treats are hard to resist.
My four boys grow antsy as cinnamon and vanilla smells dance in the air. They take turns flicking on the oven light, taking a peak at the progress. The moment the timer dings, and I confirm that the rolls are the perfect shade of golden brown, the boys are at my elbows. I drizzle on packaged frosting, and they lean in even closer, examining which one has the most sugar and staking their claims.
And then comes the hardest part: Waiting for the cinnamon rolls to cool. These last two minutes are tortuous—especially for my four-year-old.
One particular Saturday, he struggled to understand why he could see the rolls, but not yet partake. Why was I keeping the long-awaited breakfast just out of reach? He begged me for one taste, tears pooling in his eyes.
Gently, I took his hand and said, “If I give them to you now, they’ll hurt you.”
He fell silent, but his blue eyes still revealed his discontent, trying to decide whether to trust me.
Compassion swelled. Oh, how I understood his angst—more than he knew.
For six months, I’d been in my own season of waiting. Like my son, the in-between was lasting longer than I’d like. A winter that would not end. With each passing day, I’d peak out the window for signs of life and strain my ears to hear the sing-song chatter of birds, but all was quiet—the land seemingly barren and unlikely ever to show green again.
The silence unnerved me the most—a dissonance that lingered. My restlessness longed for resolve, for the song to come to its grand and glorious crescendo, but instead the quiet remained, causing me to shift in my seat. My mind squirmed and anxiety shouted, “Get up! Do something! Find answers!”
My frantic fingers grasped at the air, reaching for anything on which to hold. Eyes scanned the horizon for a sign, any indication of what was next. But the landscape remained gray and unchanged. Finally I realized: I could do nothing but sit down in my spot of earth and wait.
The dead grass crunched beneath my knees. I reached down to touch it, digging my fingers down into the dirt. The soil was cold but solid, more inviting that I’d expected. I sunk my hands down deeper, the earth working its way beneath my fingernails.
Then I felt it: life.
A gentle Voice whispered to my soul, “Stay. Dig deeper.”
Eyes to the ground, I began to dig. And for the first time, in a long time, the air smelled cinnamon sweet. The clouds didn’t part but seemed to dance, swirling in blues and grays. Laughter echoed in the distance.
Something in me shifted. The unknown no longer seemed ominous but more like an invitation. Yes, my questions remained. My dreams were still sweet desires on which I wanted to wait. But instead of pausing life in the in-between, the earth beckoned me to live well right where I was—to pick up my shovel and steward the land I’d been given. To work my little patch of world with tenderness, care, and expectance.
Sure, I had no idea what I was doing. I am no farmer or gardener, and I don’t know the first thing about growing things from nothing. I barely keep my hanging spider plant alive. But what I had come to realize is that waiting is not a void but a place of cultivating.
The waiting is a space for deep work.
feature image: Jamie Street from unsplash
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