I’ve been ill. Full of a cold that filled my head and face with so much mucus it felt like it was pushing the bones outwards. After a week of not feeling great, I took a day off work to see if that made it better. The day after I went in and was almost sick with the exertion.

So I stayed off sick some more.

Being poorly is boring. It’s the kind of enforced rest that means you can’t really do much. I watched a lot of catch up TV, a Doris Day film, slept a lot, and wrote letters to people. I did a lot of thinking, because reading took too much concentration.

And I waited to get better.

Here is one of the things I thought. I seem to be learning a lot about patience.
Waiting for bread to rise. Waiting for change to come. Waiting to get better. All this waiting is hard work.

At the start of the year I heard this:

‘The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We’re also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.’

It’s from St Paul’s letter to the Romans. I am waiting. And I am expectant that I will find joy in the waiting. And fatness!


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