"For God does speak—now one way, now another—though man may not perceive it."

‭Job 33:14 (NIV 1984)

𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

What I Learned in a Waiting Room

Sometimes the most meaningful moments in our lives unfold in ordinary spaces, settings so common we could be tempted to pass them by without a second thought. Not always, but sometimes. Still, we'll never know unless we are paying attention.

A couple of months ago, I found myself in one of those places we're tempted to overlook: a waiting room. I had just finished shopping in a bookstore, and I was sitting in the front section of the building and waiting for my parents to pick me up. After riffling through my stack of finds one more time and organizing them neatly in my bag, I settled into a big black leather chair and looked around. I'm glad I was paying attention, because I learned a lot during the minutes I was there.

None of the people in that room were there to stay. Every one was passing through on their way to somewhere else. Most of us were strangers to each other—we had never seen each other before and would probably never see each other again. But for a few brief moments, we shared a space, a room intended to give people a place to rest as they prepared for the next item on their itinerary and offer a brief respite from the weather as they passed through on their way inside or outside. For just an instant, our paths crossed.

I watched so many people pass by, all these stories walking on two legs. Being a curious person, I wondered what each person's story was. Where had they come from, where were they going, and why were they going there? Seemingly simple questions, but they could go much deeper than the surface.

I was privileged to be an onlooker who could comfortably sit and watch the passerby. I didn't have to get involved in initiating conversation, which suited me fine. Because generally I would much rather sit back and imagine what someone's story might be than stand up and step into it.

There's something about a room meant solely for passing through that calls to mind a sense of the transience of life, the shifting of seasons, and the certainty of change. You don't plan to stay there permanently, and you don't want to get too comfortable there because it's not your destination. It's just a point along the journey.

But those moments in the middle still matter. You may be only passing through, but that doesn't have to keep you from leaving something lasting. Weaving into others' stories, if only for one encounter, is a gift not to be taken for granted.

There was this boy I'll never forget. I'll call him Austin. I don't know that Austin noticed I was watching him at first, and even if he had, I don't think it would have mattered. He would have done the same thing with or without an audience.

Austin wasn't much to look at—just an average-sized boy, about eight or ten years old. He was wearing a light gray t-shirt and red shorts, and his short medium brown hair was neatly cut. Yet despite his average appearance, his dark brown eyes held an earnest expression that made him seem older than his years.

The thing about Austin that captured my attention was the way he treated his younger brother (I'll call him Sam). Austin was remarkably kind and patient toward Sam. While the boys' mother engaged in a lengthy conversation with another woman about their children and the struggles and joys of parenting, Austin gently guided Sam over to the big leather chair next to mine, and they both sat in it. Sam pulled a toy out of his backpack and fidgeted with it while Austin looked on, neither of them saying a word. An unspoken understanding seemed to pass between them.

Austin's protectiveness toward Sam impressed me. As the women's conversation lingered and the room started growing stuffy (it wasn't air-conditioned), Austin glanced down at Sam, who was still playing happily and remained oblivious to the increasing humidity. Then he jerked open the glass door that opened to the inside of the store to let in some welcome cool air, holding it open with one leg as a doorstop.

As the women talked still longer, Austin started to look tired. He began restlessly kicking the leg that wasn't holding the door open. Then he leaned back and rested his chin on his elbow, the faintest hints of frustration beginning to show in his eyes. But not for an instant did he let the heavy glass door go shut. Gazing protectively at Sam, he kept the door open.

Just from the look in his eyes, I could tell he was doing it for his younger brother, who seemed oblivious to Austin's discomfort. Sam seemed content to play with his toy and fiddle with his backpack.

But I couldn't blame Sam, because he had Down syndrome. That made the exchange all the more meaningful to me. I'm sure Austin had had plenty of practice watching over his younger brother who needed so much extra attention, and he could have been resentful because of that. But he wasn't. He accepted the extra level of guardianship as his brotherly responsibility, and he didn't seem to mind. He didn't think of it as a burden—he just did what he needed to do to take care of his brother. And that moved me.

Eventually, I couldn't sit back any longer and just watch it unfold. I couldn't let Austin continue on alone. I had to let him know that someone noticed his care for his brother. It was time to step in. So I asked Austin, "Do you want help holding that door open?"

I couldn't clearly hear his answer due to all the background noise. Turns out I didn't have to, because not long after that his mother's conversation with another mother of a child with Down syndrome ended, and she led Austin and Sam out. Just like that, we slipped out of each other's stories without so much as a goodbye.

Even though Austin was a stranger to me, I felt like I had been given a glimpse into who he really was. His compassion for a weaker one left a mark on me. He was a living portrait of brotherly love.

A mere moment, a simple memory—but I don't want it to fade. It was one of the most beautiful things I've witnessed in a waiting room.

𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴

I've known for a long time that I wanted to write a book, but I've never felt like it was the time to start. Over the last several months or so, I've sensed a stirring in that direction. After prayer and thought, I decided that it was time. Last month I officially started doing preliminary research for my first full-length project, a devotional on surrendering through the seasons. This month I'm planning to start working on choosing which topics and subtopics to include. You might have noticed that surrender was the theme of the month for October, as all of the blog posts explored the topic in one form or another. I'm hoping to explore some of the other topics I'll be writing about in the book on the blog as well. I'm looking forward to testing out those ideas and hearing your response.

Another exciting development that took place recently was that I got my first job! I accepted the position of assistant newsletter manager at Skillful Pen Press, an up-and-coming indie publishing company passionate about bringing God glory through producing edifying books. My job description is to help write their monthly newsletter, respond to emails, and assist with marketing as needed. I'm looking forward to gaining experience with the publishing process and getting to be a small part of putting good books out into the world, and I'm excited to see where this goes. (If you would like to learn more about Skillful Pen Press, you can check out their website here.)

𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 (𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴)

“‘A leaf is a silent proverb. Did you ever consider that? When it buds on the tree, people rejoice. Throughout its prime, they love it for the shade it provides. But only when it reaches the end of its time on the tree does its brilliance come through. Sometimes yellow, sometimes orange, sometimes deep red. Dazzling in its artistry, like a drop of sunset you can see at all hours of the day.’ Clara smiled. ‘A leaf has the most extraordinary death. There is so much beauty to it.’”

Sara Brunsvold

-"Experiment 14: Sit" (Elise Tegegne) — I always look forward to reading Elise Tegegne's work; she is one of my favorite blog writers. Her monthly reflections are thought-provoking and filled with glimpses of grace. This post is part of Elise's "Experiments in Inefficiency" series, which explores the beauty and necessity of rest.

-"Thanks and Praise" (Songs from the Soil) — We recently learned this song at our church, and it's been going through my mind ever since. It's a great song to sing along with and will set your heart in a worshipful mood perfect for this season of harvest.

Thank you to all who responded to my survey in the last newsletter! As you can see, I've decided to keep this a bimonthly newsletter, as that option was voted for unanimously.

ⓡⓔⓐⓓⓔⓡ ⓡⓔⓢⓟⓞⓝⓢⓔ

What is a change that has taken place recently in your life (big, small, or anywhere in between), and how do you feel about it? What lessons might God be teaching you during this season?