Learning to Wait

March 2026 Blog

Learning to Wait

March 2026 Blog

Learning to Wait

March 2026 Blog

Waiting Without Panic


I am writing this from a car dealership waiting room.


There was a time when waiting like this would have irritated me. I would have filled the space with phone calls, emails, scrolling, productivity, anything to outrun stillness. Waiting once felt like wasted time.


Today, I am grateful for it.


The coffee machine hums. The service doors open and close with a mechanical sigh. A television chatters in the corner, but I am not watching. I have my notebook. I have breath. I have an unexpected block of morning time.


And I am learning to wait without panic.


January stopped me in my tracks.


A medical crisis, internal bleeding, blood clots, and hospitalization. My body, which had carried me faithfully for decades, suddenly demanded my full attention. For weeks afterward, even as I recovered, my nervous system remained on high alert. Every unfamiliar sensation felt like a possible emergency. Every twinge became a question mark.


When my blood pressure rose a few days ago, not dangerously, but noticeably, I felt the old reflex awaken.


What if something is wrong again?


What if I missed a sign?


What if this is the beginning of another crisis?


Panic is quick. It does not knock politely. It rushes in and takes over the room.


But this time, something different happened.


I listened.


My internal medicine doctor did not mirror my alarm. She spoke calmly, steadily, without drama. She did not offer complicated interventions. She offered rhythm.


No television two hours before bed.


Replace noise with meditative calming sounds.


When napping, no TV.


And most challenging of all: check your blood pressure only once a day.


Not repeatedly.


Not every few hours.


Once.


Her instructions were simple. But for someone whose, coping once involved control, vigilance, and distraction, they were profound.


Before the medical crisis, I might not have been so willing. I might have insisted on managing it my way. I might have kept the television on for company. I might have checked my blood pressure five times a day, trying to wrestle reassurance from numbers.


But something in me has softened.


Crisis humbles you.


Being the patient instead of the chaplain rearranges you.


So, I agreed.


Willingness is everything.


For six days, I have followed the regiment.


No late-night television.


Calm app instead of background noise.


Quiet during naps.


One blood pressure reading per day.


The first three nights were not easy. My body did not yet trust the silence. Without television filling the room, the quiet felt exposed. My nervous system, still remembering hospital monitors and urgent conversations, seemed reluctant to power down.


I noticed how accustomed I had become to noise, as if sound itself could guard me from uncertainty,


By the fourth day, something shifted.


The numbers reflected calm.


113/71.


I looked at the monitor and felt something I had not expected: gratitude.


No triumph. Not relief alone. Gratitude.


My body was responding to steadiness.


It was as if my nervous system was saying, “Thank you for listening.”


I am not back to my ultimate self.


I cannot schedule as many meetings. I cannot write for hours without consequences. I do not move with the same stamina I once did. Some evenings, I must decline what I would once have pushed through.


This is humbling.


But perhaps this is what healing actually looks like, not a dramatic return to former productivity, but a gentler recalibration.


In early recovery from addiction, I learned to wait without picking up a drink.


Now I am learning to wait without picking up panic.


It is a quieter discipline. Harder to measure. But just as sacred.


The instruction to check my blood pressure only once a day has become its own spiritual practice.


It is a boundary against obsession.


It is a refusal to chase reassurance.


It is an act of trust.


When I take that one reading, I accept it. I do not negotiate with it. I do not interrogate it. I live inside the day I have been given.


Held one day at a time means trusting the information I have, not hunting for catastrophe in every moment.


Waiting without panic is not passive. It is active surrender.


As I sit here in this dealership waiting room, I notice something else: my breathing is steady.


The television continues to chatter. People scroll on their phones. The service advisor calls out names. Life moves around me.


And I am not bracing.


January taught me how fragile the body can be.


February taught me how to listen.


March is teaching me how to wait.


Waiting without demanding immediate answers.


Waiting without manufacturing worst-case scenarios.


Waiting without punishing myself for moving more slowly.


My body is recalibrating.


My nervous system is relearning safety.


My spirit is practicing surrender.


And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of this season.


Not dramatic healing.


Not instant strength restored.


But steady numbers.


Willingness to change.


And peace in a waiting room.


Lord.


Teach me to wait without fear.


Calm what still remembers crisis.


Steady what wants to brace for impact.


Help me honor the limits of this season without resentment.


Thank You for doctors who speak calmly.


Thank You for willingness that surprises me.


Thank You for 113 over 71.


In this waiting room, and in every waiting place, hold me steady, one day at a time.


Amen.

Waiting Without Panic


I am writing this from a car dealership waiting room.


There was a time when waiting like this would have irritated me. I would have filled the space with phone calls, emails, scrolling, productivity, anything to outrun stillness. Waiting once felt like wasted time.


Today, I am grateful for it.


The coffee machine hums. The service doors open and close with a mechanical sigh. A television chatters in the corner, but I am not watching. I have my notebook. I have breath. I have an unexpected block of morning time.


And I am learning to wait without panic.


January stopped me in my tracks.


A medical crisis, internal bleeding, blood clots, and hospitalization. My body, which had carried me faithfully for decades, suddenly demanded my full attention. For weeks afterward, even as I recovered, my nervous system remained on high alert. Every unfamiliar sensation felt like a possible emergency. Every twinge became a question mark.


When my blood pressure rose a few days ago, not dangerously, but noticeably, I felt the old reflex awaken.


What if something is wrong again?


What if I missed a sign?


What if this is the beginning of another crisis?


Panic is quick. It does not knock politely. It rushes in and takes over the room.


But this time, something different happened.


I listened.


My internal medicine doctor did not mirror my alarm. She spoke calmly, steadily, without drama. She did not offer complicated interventions. She offered rhythm.


No television two hours before bed.


Replace noise with meditative calming sounds.


When napping, no TV.


And most challenging of all: check your blood pressure only once a day.


Not repeatedly.


Not every few hours.


Once.


Her instructions were simple. But for someone whose, coping once involved control, vigilance, and distraction, they were profound.


Before the medical crisis, I might not have been so willing. I might have insisted on managing it my way. I might have kept the television on for company. I might have checked my blood pressure five times a day, trying to wrestle reassurance from numbers.


But something in me has softened.


Crisis humbles you.


Being the patient instead of the chaplain rearranges you.


So, I agreed.


Willingness is everything.


For six days, I have followed the regiment.


No late-night television.


Calm app instead of background noise.


Quiet during naps.


One blood pressure reading per day.


The first three nights were not easy. My body did not yet trust the silence. Without television filling the room, the quiet felt exposed. My nervous system, still remembering hospital monitors and urgent conversations, seemed reluctant to power down.


I noticed how accustomed I had become to noise, as if sound itself could guard me from uncertainty,


By the fourth day, something shifted.


The numbers reflected calm.


113/71.


I looked at the monitor and felt something I had not expected: gratitude.


No triumph. Not relief alone. Gratitude.


My body was responding to steadiness.


It was as if my nervous system was saying, “Thank you for listening.”


I am not back to my ultimate self.


I cannot schedule as many meetings. I cannot write for hours without consequences. I do not move with the same stamina I once did. Some evenings, I must decline what I would once have pushed through.


This is humbling.


But perhaps this is what healing actually looks like, not a dramatic return to former productivity, but a gentler recalibration.


In early recovery from addiction, I learned to wait without picking up a drink.


Now I am learning to wait without picking up panic.


It is a quieter discipline. Harder to measure. But just as sacred.


The instruction to check my blood pressure only once a day has become its own spiritual practice.


It is a boundary against obsession.


It is a refusal to chase reassurance.


It is an act of trust.


When I take that one reading, I accept it. I do not negotiate with it. I do not interrogate it. I live inside the day I have been given.


Held one day at a time means trusting the information I have, not hunting for catastrophe in every moment.


Waiting without panic is not passive. It is active surrender.


As I sit here in this dealership waiting room, I notice something else: my breathing is steady.


The television continues to chatter. People scroll on their phones. The service advisor calls out names. Life moves around me.


And I am not bracing.


January taught me how fragile the body can be.


February taught me how to listen.


March is teaching me how to wait.


Waiting without demanding immediate answers.


Waiting without manufacturing worst-case scenarios.


Waiting without punishing myself for moving more slowly.


My body is recalibrating.


My nervous system is relearning safety.


My spirit is practicing surrender.


And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of this season.


Not dramatic healing.


Not instant strength restored.


But steady numbers.


Willingness to change.


And peace in a waiting room.


Lord.


Teach me to wait without fear.


Calm what still remembers crisis.


Steady what wants to brace for impact.


Help me honor the limits of this season without resentment.


Thank You for doctors who speak calmly.


Thank You for willingness that surprises me.


Thank You for 113 over 71.


In this waiting room, and in every waiting place, hold me steady, one day at a time.


Amen.

Waiting Without Panic


I am writing this from a car dealership waiting room.


There was a time when waiting like this would have irritated me. I would have filled the space with phone calls, emails, scrolling, productivity, anything to outrun stillness. Waiting once felt like wasted time.


Today, I am grateful for it.


The coffee machine hums. The service doors open and close with a mechanical sigh. A television chatters in the corner, but I am not watching. I have my notebook. I have breath. I have an unexpected block of morning time.


And I am learning to wait without panic.


January stopped me in my tracks.


A medical crisis, internal bleeding, blood clots, and hospitalization. My body, which had carried me faithfully for decades, suddenly demanded my full attention. For weeks afterward, even as I recovered, my nervous system remained on high alert. Every unfamiliar sensation felt like a possible emergency. Every twinge became a question mark.


When my blood pressure rose a few days ago, not dangerously, but noticeably, I felt the old reflex awaken.


What if something is wrong again?


What if I missed a sign?


What if this is the beginning of another crisis?


Panic is quick. It does not knock politely. It rushes in and takes over the room.


But this time, something different happened.


I listened.


My internal medicine doctor did not mirror my alarm. She spoke calmly, steadily, without drama. She did not offer complicated interventions. She offered rhythm.


No television two hours before bed.


Replace noise with meditative calming sounds.


When napping, no TV.


And most challenging of all: check your blood pressure only once a day.


Not repeatedly.


Not every few hours.


Once.


Her instructions were simple. But for someone whose, coping once involved control, vigilance, and distraction, they were profound.


Before the medical crisis, I might not have been so willing. I might have insisted on managing it my way. I might have kept the television on for company. I might have checked my blood pressure five times a day, trying to wrestle reassurance from numbers.


But something in me has softened.


Crisis humbles you.


Being the patient instead of the chaplain rearranges you.


So, I agreed.


Willingness is everything.


For six days, I have followed the regiment.


No late-night television.


Calm app instead of background noise.


Quiet during naps.


One blood pressure reading per day.


The first three nights were not easy. My body did not yet trust the silence. Without television filling the room, the quiet felt exposed. My nervous system, still remembering hospital monitors and urgent conversations, seemed reluctant to power down.


I noticed how accustomed I had become to noise, as if sound itself could guard me from uncertainty,


By the fourth day, something shifted.


The numbers reflected calm.


113/71.


I looked at the monitor and felt something I had not expected: gratitude.


No triumph. Not relief alone. Gratitude.


My body was responding to steadiness.


It was as if my nervous system was saying, “Thank you for listening.”


I am not back to my ultimate self.


I cannot schedule as many meetings. I cannot write for hours without consequences. I do not move with the same stamina I once did. Some evenings, I must decline what I would once have pushed through.


This is humbling.


But perhaps this is what healing actually looks like, not a dramatic return to former productivity, but a gentler recalibration.


In early recovery from addiction, I learned to wait without picking up a drink.


Now I am learning to wait without picking up panic.


It is a quieter discipline. Harder to measure. But just as sacred.


The instruction to check my blood pressure only once a day has become its own spiritual practice.


It is a boundary against obsession.


It is a refusal to chase reassurance.


It is an act of trust.


When I take that one reading, I accept it. I do not negotiate with it. I do not interrogate it. I live inside the day I have been given.


Held one day at a time means trusting the information I have, not hunting for catastrophe in every moment.


Waiting without panic is not passive. It is active surrender.


As I sit here in this dealership waiting room, I notice something else: my breathing is steady.


The television continues to chatter. People scroll on their phones. The service advisor calls out names. Life moves around me.


And I am not bracing.


January taught me how fragile the body can be.


February taught me how to listen.


March is teaching me how to wait.


Waiting without demanding immediate answers.


Waiting without manufacturing worst-case scenarios.


Waiting without punishing myself for moving more slowly.


My body is recalibrating.


My nervous system is relearning safety.


My spirit is practicing surrender.


And perhaps that is the quiet miracle of this season.


Not dramatic healing.


Not instant strength restored.


But steady numbers.


Willingness to change.


And peace in a waiting room.


Lord.


Teach me to wait without fear.


Calm what still remembers crisis.


Steady what wants to brace for impact.


Help me honor the limits of this season without resentment.


Thank You for doctors who speak calmly.


Thank You for willingness that surprises me.


Thank You for 113 over 71.


In this waiting room, and in every waiting place, hold me steady, one day at a time.


Amen.