Waiting Room

Micah Pederson by Micah Pederson Additional Needs

Micah Pederson

Micah Pederson

I am a mom to two children biologically and many children through foster care. My husband and I have been married three years. Our foster home is a...

Here we are again. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

What will the news be today? Will we hear of hope we have ached for? Will we learn of findings I cannot find the strength to consider?

Perhaps there will no answers at all but a million more questions, yet another referral, and more waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Beside me, the nervous tapping of a mother’s foot as she holds her baby close hammers into my anxious thoughts.

Our restless eyes meet one another and still just long enough to share a sympathetic look and tight smile. We don’t have to know each other. We just know.

I silently plead with God for good news for that mama today. And we wait. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

I take a deep breath more audibly than I had intended and shift in my vinyl seat. My sweet boy snoozes beside me.

I am so thankful for his rest and escape from his mama’s nerves. I look around the room and allow myself to take in each person who sits and waits—some for good news, some for bad.

In my mind I start to calculate the number of hours I have spent in waiting rooms the last week….month….year…three years. Whoa. Too big of a number.

Will I ever be done waiting? Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

But slowly, a realization slips into my mind and grabs hold of my heart.

Time is precious. If I must spend hour after hour waiting, I must wait well.

What if a waiting room became a place of mundane miracles and human connection instead of anxious hearts and racing minds?

No longer will I allow these hours within the waiting room to be defined by slavery to the minutes ticking by and thoughts of terrible news.

My eyes fall on a couple in the corner struggling to manage the behavior of their child who has additional needs.

I dig in my purse for a scrap of paper, grab a pen from the front desk, and jot a note in penmanship that reveals my nerves in shakes and quivers: “Hi! I am fellow special needs mama and just wanted to tell you what an amazing job you are doing. Your love for your daughter is radiant. I know there are so many hard days. I don’t know you but I am for you. God bless you.”

From that day forward, the many waiting rooms I find myself sitting in became places to spread hope, unity, and kindness no matter the relief or heartache that await us.

I no longer simply wait. I write encouraging notes, I start conversations, and I hear people’s stories.

I go out of my way to make my little ones laugh and take minds away from the fear of the wait.

Just like that, the waiting room lost its grip on me.

It is no longer waiting…waiting…waiting. It is loving…laughing…living.

When it comes to the miracles that take materialize in the mundane every minute matters.

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