Little has been said about the waiting room
Apart from the overwhelming feeling of gloom
Uncertainty colors your vision in grays
Delirium sets in as you realize you've been there for days
A couple months in, and I've yet to be free
From this prison I'm in and in my heart I carry
I've realized that the waiting room is its own form of torture
A lot like experience, the cruelest teacher
It's a lot like leaving the light on out on the porch
With no guarantee of anyone coming home
It's like expecting a call or a knock to know whether death or return
But neither comes through for weeks, months, and years
It's like driving down unfamiliar roads with both a GPS and a map
But still feeling desperately lost in the middle of seemingly endless asphalt
It's like getting diagnosed with a terminal illness
The odds are slim to none, but you hope for healing just the same
It's like reading a book you've asked about and researched on
You know what the ending will be but still wish for a brighter epilogue
It's like praying for the sun and rain to give you hope and soothe your skin
But getting cloud cover thick enough to hide and keep both away
And all the while, as thoughts pummel you constantly
As you cry expecting more than just hot tears to come out
You wait for that still, small voice of reassurance and true hope
But at the same time, keep Him at arm's length, yourself away from His comfort
It's long and agonizing being in the waiting room
Not one hue, not one style can fully express what it's like
But One greater than Van Gogh reminds me frequently
That He holds the brush and the palette and keeps the easel steady
Until the day He calls me out of the room and into freedom
I will say, head bowed, "May Your will be done for the glory of Your kingdom!"
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