I recently spent an early morning hour in the waiting room of a pathology lab.
My right leg bounced up-and-down on the brown, tile ceramic floor while my eyes stayed glued to my phone rather than the overly small, pastel-colored prints meant to give the bare walls a semblance of welcome.
Finally, the summons:
“Robert!” (the formal name is always called in these settings).
I stood up from among a dozen or so others in the waiting room and made my way back to the area where they had me sit next to a stack of plastic vials, elastic bandages, and assorted labels.
“How you are this morning?” the nurse asked as I sat.
“Doing fine.”
“Sorry for the wait. We’ll have you out shortly.”
“Sounds good.”
Quick, matter-of-fact, keep-the-ball-moving speak, all while I rolled up my sleeve and prepared for the poke that would draw blood.
“Oh…” she mumbled. “Forgot something.”
She darted off, and another nurse came in to grab something from a drawer.
The second nurse began, “Oh hi. Sorry.” I don’t think she expected to see a patient in the area where I was seated.
This time I offered the question: “How’s the morning going?”
That's when I saw her eyes. Even with a mask covering most of her face, I could tell her eyes were full… of something. Stress maybe?
“It’s been a morning…” she offered.
I almost completed her sentence in the way I expected it to go: “Another busy start to the day, huh?”
But instead of me completing what I assumed to be the issue, she went on: “My little one had surgery.”
“Oh my.” And my mind flashed to my own two sons. “How old?”
“He’s ten.” Older than mine, but I’m confident “little one” is the age all parents report when their child (of any age) is having surgery.
“It’s been all night and day,” she went on.
I don’t know what she meant by that last sentence. The surgery? The worry? The lack of sleep?
But after that sentence she offered a brief exhale, her fearful eyes left mine, and she walked back to whatever duty she had elsewhere at that moment.
—
Most of life feels like a waiting room that is surely not the beautiful, amazing, and expansive place we dream of being. Too drab. Too plain. Even the pastel-colored accomplishments and possessions we do have seem…
Pedestrian?
Cliche?
Could be bigger?
(Photo by Petr Magera on Unsplash)
And then we hum through our many work-and-life routines with a quick, polite cadence. We can go whole days surfing across life with a quick, matter-of-fact way of being because, of course, we’re moving toward Somewhere Greater!
The problem is this: every wondrous escape we imagine is an illusion. Because even if we get ‘there’ - guess who will be there?
We will.
And if we are currently the kind of person ever-dissatisfied with the drab, less-than-perfect pastels that comprise some (or a lot) of our reality right now, we are the kind of person who will show up to a gorgeous banquet and find ourselves soon leg-bouncing and dream-scrolling about how we might eventually get Somewhere Greater.
But sometimes… sometimes something breaks below our surface.
It may be the…
Genuine question of another.
Fearful news regarding the diagnosis.
Wholehearted cries…or laughter of another.
Honest eyes of a nurse carrying the soul of her son.
It pricks into our lifestream and runs directly toward that place called soul. It feels like waking up, even if the reality we’re now processing feels bigger than words can express.
(Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash)
And when those moments happen, we can be certain of one thing: our vitals are now coming back in good working order.
The prick brings us into the only moment we have and the only one that is guaranteed: the moment of now.
The prick also helps make vividly clear the only kind of color we actually long to have in this life: the tapestry woven when life connects with life.
By way of a prick, she stopped my bouncing leg.
By way of a prick, I was invited to hold a bandage on her wound - if for only a few seconds, and only by way of my eyes reflecting back a parent’s concern.
By way of a prick, the two of us could feel quite fully how finite, fearful, and beautiful the lifestream we are given - and the lifestreams entrusted to us.
—
Has life had any of that waiting room feel these recent days? How would you describe the place or people or situation where it would really be great if we could get through it and move onto the Next Thing?
And what if…
… the fastest way out of the current drab is, paradoxically, fully embracing the current drab - and accompanying emotions - as somehow the space where fresh color resides?
… we could start treating our waiting rooms as the room of life? (Wait! We’re already at the banquet!? Ok, not nearly in some ways. But also… yes.)
… we looked around the room to see who else is there with us - without assuming we can complete their sentence?1
It may very well be that through their presence/voice/eyes we receive a fresh prick.
Or, it may very well be that because we have a fresh awareness of the kind of colors we actually want on the walls of life - we ourselves will step across the drab room and ask a question. Or share. Or…
The room changes when such things happen. So, too, do the people.
—
Indeed, an hour after I was pricked, I took our two-year-old to a doctor’s appointment. Fever. Sore throat. The visit took an hour.
Ample time to bury the phone deep into my jacket pocket and hold his warmth close to me.
Henri Nouwen once observed, “Pay attention to the people God puts in your path if you want to discern what God is up to in your life.”
Needed this with my morning tea today. Thank you!
Absolutely brilliant writing, Bobby. You have an incredulous gift for blending story and wisdom. 🙌🏻🙌🏻