The Waiting Room
Narrative based on a sermon by Quentin Beard – First Assembly of God, Sioux Falls, SD – July 2011.
I entered the room early. Really early. Four plain walls, no windows, faded blue chairs, two dark coffee tables full of magazines, low lighting fixtures save for the bright yellow spot light over the receptionists desk. At the desk sat a woman anyone would love to call “grandma”. Her half-moon glasses tightrope walked her nose and her body was a comfy looking sofa of love and bumps under her floral scrubs. One other man already sat there, waiting.
I went to the receptionist.
“Hi, I'd like an appointment with God,” I said.
“Sweetheart, everyone does or they don't come here,” she smiled. I wasn't offended. It was true. “It could be a wait,” she said.
“That's fine. I'll wait.”
“Have a seat, Hun.”
I sat down, a boring, non-descriptive chair of undefined blue. I didn’t want a magazine. They didn't entertain. The man across, looked like he'd been there a while. His beard was growing, he looked like he hadn't slept and his clothes were wrinkled and limp. He gave me an acknowledging nod and went on waiting. So did I. We both sat there, a sterile room of white noise and the hushed movements of the receptionist. There wasn't even a clock.
The ceiling had square foot tiles. The room was 20 tiles by 12 tiles for an area of 240 feet. I still could do some math when bored. The floor had stone tiles, matching the ceiling square for square. Each chair matched its neighbor perfectly, without a scratch or stain. The man across the way looked more stressed and haggard than when I first entered. The coffee tables had a quilted pattern on the top and each leg was made up of one inch squares. I wanted to scream.
I pulled out my phone and updated my Facebook status, “Waiting on God in his waiting room... hoping to have my issues taken care of. Trusting...”
“Miss, no phones here. Thank you.”
I muttered and put my phone away. I checked my math on the tiles and found there were 18 squares up the coffee tables legs, grafting into the table blocks. I stood and went to the front desk.
“Excuse me, how much longer will I be here?”
“No telling, darling. When he's ready, he'll see you.”
“But, how long?” I persisted.
“Babe, he knows your status. Chill. He knows.” She returned to her paperwork and I sat down.
Later the man began to pace. He paced for a few hours, the 20 tiles of the room and sat down again. I found out I couldn't sleep there in the waiting room. I didn't need sleep, but I couldn't have slept if I'd wanted to. There was no clock, but hours had passed.
I soon was pacing, barefoot in my jeans and t-shirt. I looked a picture, but no one cared. At one point the man laid flat on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling.
There were 70 magazines on the two coffee tables, 23 on the left, 47 on the right. Ten were on money, ten on love, ten on health and beauty, ten on design, ten on family, ten on entertainment and ten on travel. Each had five large articles, 15 small articles, at least three letters to the editor and a minimum of 50 advertisements. I read them all.
Four other people, an older couple and a girl of 14 and a man about 21 joined us. The older couple got called in to see God after an hour. The girl saw him in under 20 hours. The two guys and I remained. The men talked in low voices and seemed happy even. The second man left not long after. After a few days, the first man left with joyous bounds and leaps, singing and crying. I was alone in the waiting room.
All ten beauty magazines had the same articles on younger skin, getting dates, fixing relationships, clothing that make you look fat, and how your bra can do all the talking on the first date. I read all the financial articles and still don't understand money. Though I will say the amount of money in sports is crazy!
The walls had paneling two feet wide, ten panels down, six panels wide – two ceiling tiles per wall panel of fake oak grain.
I went to speak to the receptionist again.
“Excuse me. I'm the only one here.”
“I had noticed.”
“So, can I see God about my issue?”
“When he's ready.”
“But there isn't anyone else here to see!”
“So you think you're the only one with a request for a miracle, waiting anywhere in the whole wide world?” she snapped a little.
“Well... no, but God told me to wait for him, to wait on his promise and answer and I'd like to discuss this with him, because...”
“Dearie, not to be rude or whatnot, but if God said to wait, then wait.”
“But I've been here for days!” I don't even know how long! I smell, I need to change and sleep, but I can't here. I'm just waiting! Waiting!”
“Yes, You knew you were coming to a waiting room when you walked in the door.”
“Yeah, but...”
“No 'buts' dearie. Have a seat or go home. It's up to you.” I sat down, tears portraying agony.
“How long have I been here?” My whispered question reached the receptionist.
“138 days, so far.” I let the tears fall.
Later a whole family came in, talking loudly and yelling and explained something to the receptionist. They went right in to see God and never sat down in the waiting room. Three more people joined me and left before I did. Soon I owned that waiting room. I rotated. I did my math on the ceiling tiles, wall panels, magazines, coffee table. Then I would paced, first one side 250 times then the other side. 20 feet x 500 = 10,000 – nearly two miles.
At night – or what I think was night – I walked the room, doing the math while touching each panel or tile, each cube in the table – waiting. I counted days too. At 412 days I was a bit crazy. I looked far worst than the man I'd seen upon entering the waiting room.
Weary, blurry-eyed and growing angrier by the second, I snapped.
“Why am I still here?” I clenched my teeth as the pristine receptionist who neither slept nor ate, responded.
“Because you're waiting,” she said.
“FOR WHAT?! An act of God?!??!” I screamed without thinking. The sweet, sassy lady looked at me with pity and understanding beneath her firm eyes and lips.
“Yes,” she said softly. I returned to my seat. Later I began a new routine. After pacing, I added a game where I sat in each chair for a count of 60. Each chair being 18 inches across meant six chairs plus one empty space in each corner. One chair on either side of the door and the front desk made a total of 16 chairs. I could pass an hour easily by rotating the room four times.
In the midst of my game, an elegant and sophisticated lady entered as if she was an old friend. She was maybe 40 and beautifully clean. I was counting to 60 when she sat next to me.
“Hello, how long have you been here?” She asked. I felt offended by her question though I don't know why.
“437 days.”
“I see. You're brave.” laughter seemed to escape with her words.
“Why?”
“Most people don't stay here that long. They give up or look elsewhere for help. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I was here for 3,650 days once,” she said seriously. I starred at her, my mouth a gape. “My husband battled with cancer for 10 years before dying. And I spent those ten years in here, waiting for a miraculous healing that never came.”
“So I'm wasting my time!?” I shouted, sitting upright.
“Would I be back here if that were true?” she countered. I slumped back in my seat. “In ten years I learned so much. Gained so much wisdom from God, about God, about myself, so much I'll never be able to explain. My husband and I witnessed to over 500 people in ten years of hospital visits and stays. Was that a waste? Would I be here, asking for another thing from God if I didn't believe 100 percent that he'd do it? God is a specialist, my dear. God knows your need better than you do. He made you and knows all you need, not just the one. He is the best in your specific case. The need you have? You don't want any other hand orchestrating that specific miracle. God is the best, so don't give up. Have you been praying in here?”
I stared at my floor tiles and wall panels. “No.”
“Try it,” she smiled like an elderly angel of joy. The receptionist called her name and then the smiling woman went in.
I prayed as I counted each floor tile, each ceiling tile and wall panel. I prayed till I was lying on the floor as the man before me had. I prayed a different prayer in each chair and a new prayer with each pacing pass. I prayed each cube in the coffee table and gave up reading the magazines. I prayed for each headline instead. I prayed till I was horse, then prayed silently. Sometimes, praying in a chair, I felt like I was sleeping. Soon, my prayers refreshed me so I took to dancing as I sang prayers. I lost track of days, concentrating on prayer. Time slipped away. Sometimes I forgot I was waiting.
“Dearest,”
I sat in a chair, praying with eyes closed.
“Yes?”
“When was the last time you slept or ate?” asked the receptionist.
“I don't know. Over a 1,000 days, maybe?”
“It's been 1,093 days without food, water or sleep. How is that?” She knew the answer, but so did I.
“God sustains me in the waiting.”
“Dearie?” I looked up again to the desk, which I prayed for daily. “You can go in now,” she said.
(Dedicated to all my family and friends who are also "waiting" on God for anything and everything under the sun... God will provide in his time, we just have to wait for it. The hardest part of all.)
I entered the room early. Really early. Four plain walls, no windows, faded blue chairs, two dark coffee tables full of magazines, low lighting fixtures save for the bright yellow spot light over the receptionists desk. At the desk sat a woman anyone would love to call “grandma”. Her half-moon glasses tightrope walked her nose and her body was a comfy looking sofa of love and bumps under her floral scrubs. One other man already sat there, waiting.
I went to the receptionist.
“Hi, I'd like an appointment with God,” I said.
“Sweetheart, everyone does or they don't come here,” she smiled. I wasn't offended. It was true. “It could be a wait,” she said.
“That's fine. I'll wait.”
“Have a seat, Hun.”
I sat down, a boring, non-descriptive chair of undefined blue. I didn’t want a magazine. They didn't entertain. The man across, looked like he'd been there a while. His beard was growing, he looked like he hadn't slept and his clothes were wrinkled and limp. He gave me an acknowledging nod and went on waiting. So did I. We both sat there, a sterile room of white noise and the hushed movements of the receptionist. There wasn't even a clock.
The ceiling had square foot tiles. The room was 20 tiles by 12 tiles for an area of 240 feet. I still could do some math when bored. The floor had stone tiles, matching the ceiling square for square. Each chair matched its neighbor perfectly, without a scratch or stain. The man across the way looked more stressed and haggard than when I first entered. The coffee tables had a quilted pattern on the top and each leg was made up of one inch squares. I wanted to scream.
I pulled out my phone and updated my Facebook status, “Waiting on God in his waiting room... hoping to have my issues taken care of. Trusting...”
“Miss, no phones here. Thank you.”
I muttered and put my phone away. I checked my math on the tiles and found there were 18 squares up the coffee tables legs, grafting into the table blocks. I stood and went to the front desk.
“Excuse me, how much longer will I be here?”
“No telling, darling. When he's ready, he'll see you.”
“But, how long?” I persisted.
“Babe, he knows your status. Chill. He knows.” She returned to her paperwork and I sat down.
Later the man began to pace. He paced for a few hours, the 20 tiles of the room and sat down again. I found out I couldn't sleep there in the waiting room. I didn't need sleep, but I couldn't have slept if I'd wanted to. There was no clock, but hours had passed.
I soon was pacing, barefoot in my jeans and t-shirt. I looked a picture, but no one cared. At one point the man laid flat on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling.
There were 70 magazines on the two coffee tables, 23 on the left, 47 on the right. Ten were on money, ten on love, ten on health and beauty, ten on design, ten on family, ten on entertainment and ten on travel. Each had five large articles, 15 small articles, at least three letters to the editor and a minimum of 50 advertisements. I read them all.
Four other people, an older couple and a girl of 14 and a man about 21 joined us. The older couple got called in to see God after an hour. The girl saw him in under 20 hours. The two guys and I remained. The men talked in low voices and seemed happy even. The second man left not long after. After a few days, the first man left with joyous bounds and leaps, singing and crying. I was alone in the waiting room.
All ten beauty magazines had the same articles on younger skin, getting dates, fixing relationships, clothing that make you look fat, and how your bra can do all the talking on the first date. I read all the financial articles and still don't understand money. Though I will say the amount of money in sports is crazy!
The walls had paneling two feet wide, ten panels down, six panels wide – two ceiling tiles per wall panel of fake oak grain.
I went to speak to the receptionist again.
“Excuse me. I'm the only one here.”
“I had noticed.”
“So, can I see God about my issue?”
“When he's ready.”
“But there isn't anyone else here to see!”
“So you think you're the only one with a request for a miracle, waiting anywhere in the whole wide world?” she snapped a little.
“Well... no, but God told me to wait for him, to wait on his promise and answer and I'd like to discuss this with him, because...”
“Dearie, not to be rude or whatnot, but if God said to wait, then wait.”
“But I've been here for days!” I don't even know how long! I smell, I need to change and sleep, but I can't here. I'm just waiting! Waiting!”
“Yes, You knew you were coming to a waiting room when you walked in the door.”
“Yeah, but...”
“No 'buts' dearie. Have a seat or go home. It's up to you.” I sat down, tears portraying agony.
“How long have I been here?” My whispered question reached the receptionist.
“138 days, so far.” I let the tears fall.
Later a whole family came in, talking loudly and yelling and explained something to the receptionist. They went right in to see God and never sat down in the waiting room. Three more people joined me and left before I did. Soon I owned that waiting room. I rotated. I did my math on the ceiling tiles, wall panels, magazines, coffee table. Then I would paced, first one side 250 times then the other side. 20 feet x 500 = 10,000 – nearly two miles.
At night – or what I think was night – I walked the room, doing the math while touching each panel or tile, each cube in the table – waiting. I counted days too. At 412 days I was a bit crazy. I looked far worst than the man I'd seen upon entering the waiting room.
Weary, blurry-eyed and growing angrier by the second, I snapped.
“Why am I still here?” I clenched my teeth as the pristine receptionist who neither slept nor ate, responded.
“Because you're waiting,” she said.
“FOR WHAT?! An act of God?!??!” I screamed without thinking. The sweet, sassy lady looked at me with pity and understanding beneath her firm eyes and lips.
“Yes,” she said softly. I returned to my seat. Later I began a new routine. After pacing, I added a game where I sat in each chair for a count of 60. Each chair being 18 inches across meant six chairs plus one empty space in each corner. One chair on either side of the door and the front desk made a total of 16 chairs. I could pass an hour easily by rotating the room four times.
In the midst of my game, an elegant and sophisticated lady entered as if she was an old friend. She was maybe 40 and beautifully clean. I was counting to 60 when she sat next to me.
“Hello, how long have you been here?” She asked. I felt offended by her question though I don't know why.
“437 days.”
“I see. You're brave.” laughter seemed to escape with her words.
“Why?”
“Most people don't stay here that long. They give up or look elsewhere for help. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I was here for 3,650 days once,” she said seriously. I starred at her, my mouth a gape. “My husband battled with cancer for 10 years before dying. And I spent those ten years in here, waiting for a miraculous healing that never came.”
“So I'm wasting my time!?” I shouted, sitting upright.
“Would I be back here if that were true?” she countered. I slumped back in my seat. “In ten years I learned so much. Gained so much wisdom from God, about God, about myself, so much I'll never be able to explain. My husband and I witnessed to over 500 people in ten years of hospital visits and stays. Was that a waste? Would I be here, asking for another thing from God if I didn't believe 100 percent that he'd do it? God is a specialist, my dear. God knows your need better than you do. He made you and knows all you need, not just the one. He is the best in your specific case. The need you have? You don't want any other hand orchestrating that specific miracle. God is the best, so don't give up. Have you been praying in here?”
I stared at my floor tiles and wall panels. “No.”
“Try it,” she smiled like an elderly angel of joy. The receptionist called her name and then the smiling woman went in.
I prayed as I counted each floor tile, each ceiling tile and wall panel. I prayed till I was lying on the floor as the man before me had. I prayed a different prayer in each chair and a new prayer with each pacing pass. I prayed each cube in the coffee table and gave up reading the magazines. I prayed for each headline instead. I prayed till I was horse, then prayed silently. Sometimes, praying in a chair, I felt like I was sleeping. Soon, my prayers refreshed me so I took to dancing as I sang prayers. I lost track of days, concentrating on prayer. Time slipped away. Sometimes I forgot I was waiting.
“Dearest,”
I sat in a chair, praying with eyes closed.
“Yes?”
“When was the last time you slept or ate?” asked the receptionist.
“I don't know. Over a 1,000 days, maybe?”
“It's been 1,093 days without food, water or sleep. How is that?” She knew the answer, but so did I.
“God sustains me in the waiting.”
“Dearie?” I looked up again to the desk, which I prayed for daily. “You can go in now,” she said.
(Dedicated to all my family and friends who are also "waiting" on God for anything and everything under the sun... God will provide in his time, we just have to wait for it. The hardest part of all.)
(Photo credit: Movdata: Waiting Room, Christy Bindas)
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