The “Wait” of the Cross

Come, Lord, and tarry not;
Bring the long, looked-for day;
O why these years of waiting here,
These ages of delay?

Come, for love waxes cold,
Its steps are faint and slow;
Faith now is lost in unbelief,
Hope’s lamp burns dim and low.

You may have noticed that there is a strong sense of “waiting” in the Advent liturgy. “The Lord is waiting to show you favor,” says the prophet Isaiah, “blessed are all who wait for him!”

And again, “Wait for the Lord, be strong,” says the Psalmist, “and let your heart take courage;

“Yea, wait for the Lord!”

You would think God didn’t know that we’re impatient. Being made to wait for something? That’s just not the American way.

And yet that’s what we’re asked to do.

Wait.

While the clock keeps ticking…

Wait.

For Our Guest is coming.

Wait.

Heck if it can’t be hard to do so!

So the question is, how should we be waiting? Should we look for Our Guest with foot-tapping impatience and with fretful distraction? Or should we be peaceful, proactive, and joyfully resigned to the uncertain time of His arrival?

There is a difference between the waiting and the watchfulness of Sacred Scripture and the idleness to which we could conversely be prone. Without the faith and hope that Our Lord is indeed coming, we could (and do) fall into discouragement, despair, and depression.

And trust me, I know depression.

This past feast of the Immaculate Conception can serve as the perfect example. The hour preceding our departure for Mass that evening could not possibly have been any worse. My husband had to work late and literally jumped into the van as we were leaving. The transition from play clothes to Mass clothes was excruciating. And finally, I was a raging bear in dealing with all the bickering and complaining.

I was so disappointed that our feast day had turned out so poorly.

I was shocked by my weakness.

I was saddened by my anger.

I withdrew.

The last place I wanted to be was sitting there in that beautiful church. What a scam! Little did those people know that there was such a sinner in their midst.

The tears streamed down my face and I felt unworthy. I leaned over to my husband and whispered, “ I won’t be going up to communion.”

His brow knitted and I knew he knew my words were a bad sign.

He knows. Over the years he has steered me through some pretty rocky waters.

Well, I don’t quite know what happened then. Perhaps it was an unspoken prayer on the part of my husband, perhaps the intercession of Our Lady hurrying me to her son. Suddenly the waiting for grace was over.

Like the dawn from on high breaking upon me, I realized what great pride it was that was keeping me so depressed. I realized I was being hypersensitive, first to the failings of my children and then to my own.

Yes, I had fallen. Yes, I had been knocked down beneath the weight of my cross.

Did I not have the faith and the courage to get back up again?

I decided not to wait until I “felt” better. I decided to be a stronger momma than I had been; all was not lost!

I whispered a request for forgiveness: first to my daughter, then my sons. They smiled, looked relieved, and gave their momma little kisses.

And then we all went up to the altar together.

Good waiting.

Bad waiting.

In the end, it’s our decision.

All the way from the manger to the cross.

Manger image © goodsalt