If I was a body of water, I would be a rushing river. I like to move, adventure, discover what’s next around the corner. Sometimes the water is booking it, mist flying and rapids a-moving. But if you follow a river long enough, usually you’ll discover places of stillness. Rest. Waiting.
To the pond people these may be little oasises. They like time to think, ponder, wait. But for a river, I just want to move. These times of life feel like trapping fast-moving rapids into a box. It doesn’t work. The box gets soggy. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t like it.
There must be some reason for these pauses in the rush of life. I’m sure there is actually something quite profound to be uncovered. However, I seem to be too preoccupied with getting out of the box to notice its purpose. I want to see what I’m missing outside the cardboard. Perhaps the walls have their purpose. The stillness its refreshment. The rest its rejuvenation. The waiting is maturation.
Perhaps even in the uncomfortable tension and anxious unknown, this little river could learn something about waiting.