In a world built on instant gratification, the beauty of waiting has become an endangered species. We want everything right now.
The package, the promotion, the apology, the miracle, but life, real life, still makes us wait. Waiting forces us to slow down, to look around, and to notice the things that rush quickly usually are blinding. It is not wasted time, but preparation. It is the stretching before the sprint. It is faith with a stopwatch.
I didn’t become a dad until I was forty years old. That was when I finally became a man. When that beautiful woman I once loved handed me my firstborn, George, everything started to click. All the waiting, all the screw-ups and second chances were worth every damn second.
I didn’t become an orphan until my fifties. My mom went first, just before I turned fifty. My Oldman followed four years later, and with him went the last bit of the generation that raised me. I remember kids in grade school losing their parents. I never thought I’d still have both of mine for so long. Waiting to feel that loss until later in life gave me a different kind of gratitude. It taught me to sit still, to breathe, to watch the sunlight move across the dining room wall.
Now I’m waiting for the next chapter...
... hopefully one that includes more laughter, a few wins, and maybe a Denny’s coupon or two through AARP. The sun I drew today has a crooked smile, and it is gonna be a high temperature of Momma Boy Otis, one of a kind.
Today is National Bologna Day, so tip your cap to the kid who sang about his Oscar Mayer bologna. Finish the week strong and lavish in the astonishment of what you have been patiently waiting for.
