December 9, 2015 | II Advent, Wednesday

Ps 38, 119:25-48; Amos 8:1-14, Rev. 1:17-2:7, Matt. 23:1-12

"...And hast borne, and hast patience, and for my name's sake hast laboured,

and hast not fainted."

I have waited in a line, waiting my turn. I have waited in a waiting room--a whole room meant only for waiting--where I have waited an hour or more waiting to be called, waiting to be seen. I've waited for a sign, for the answer, for directions, for proof. It's everywhere, the waiting: we wait and see; we wait just a minute; we wait until we're ready. I have been waited on and been kept waiting. Sometimes, I've waited for it--whatever it is--to finally happen and other times I've held on, waiting until it's over.

But what about waiting that feels like weight? What about the weight of illness, my head on fire, my body wrecked: I wait for relief, a cure, for mercy to come.

Only recently did I make the connection and it seems to me a perfect metaphor for Advent-the weight of our waiting, the Virgin waiting and heavy with the weight of a child to come.

My wait is my weight: for love, for children, for happiness, for what I keep thinking is my real life to begin. And in the meantime, more weight: regret, sin, loss, doubt. We're always (aren't we?) waiting to be seen and waiting to be called, waiting, I suppose, to be saved from ourselves.

This morning, the window is open, the curtain blows in the wind, and I stare into the eyes of Mary. She's waiting; I'm waiting. But if I look long enough, the meanwhile vanishes: He's already come; it's already happening. I'm waiting to be led to a place I already am. And I am waiting for the arrival of something already here.

Allison Seay

Advent at St. Stephen's

Past meditations