It's the waiting that is hard. Sometimes it's the waiting for healing, physical or emotional. Sometimes it's the waiting for hope, for the darkness to lift, for the sun's rising in the morning to feel like possibility, not another opportunity to worry, to wonder if this day will be any different than the next. It is heavy, the ache of lost hope. It has a smell, too—like decay, sometimes covered in the masquerade of new clothes, a tired smile, a pretend "fine" when it is the last thing  you feel. Sometimes we ache for what's next when what's right now is actually what we need. For months I was waiting to move back into our house, to be in the space I know and love. And now that we have moved back in, days before Christmas—and workers are almost out of our house on a daily basis—I am waiting for my arm to heal; I broke it while skiing on New Year's Eve. It is difficult to accept that a broken bone, the forced slowing down, the inability to do all the things I am craving to do—get organized after vacation, write for hours everyday, work out on the rowing machine—might be a gift.  I have felt tired of waiting—waiting to be home, waiting to have things settled, waiting to have time to think and listen and write. But what I can still do—and what I need to do more than anything else now—is sit in the quiet with my Father and let His voice pour into me. Of course I want to move quickly and efficiently—get things done when I want them done. But maybe it is better that I can't.

Surrendering control—even being forced to it—is a gift I needed. I am accepting this, bit by bit.

It was His words that made it all okay—easing my frustration of wanting things done the way I want them done. I was pulling on jeans this morning with one hand, wincing from the pain of bruised ribs and legs. We were unpacking from our trip, piles of clothes heaped below the washer in our kitchen, a mattress on the floor in our family room, where our oldest sleeps until the railings are built on his loft.Wisdom from friends echo the words of the Father. "Listen. Wait." And I realize how precious it is to be forced to slow. So, for now, I will try to be patient—listening for His voice without always wondering what's next.

What hard-to-recognize gift is before you right now?