As the week begins, we arrive with a suitcase, a week off work, a plan. Friday ends in a disorienting progression of bad news. We enter the Sabbath exhausted by worry and weeping. Nothing to do but wait.
The new day begins, brings a groggy moment in which sleep has pushed back memory and pain. Then past connects with the present night had no power to truly overcome. Before us lies a day of nothingness—no cheerful chatter, no hugs, no hope that anything will change—just one long nap from which we hope and pray our son will eventually awake. Nothing to do but wait.
The doctors have gone home. The records sent to more experienced minds sit quietly on darkened desks. We try to find meaning in numbers on monitors, in the tone of the doctor's voice, in the gentle squeeze of Levi's hand. Nothing to do but wait.
But time can be a gift. As we wait and Levi rests, a greater thing moves in to fill the void. On such a day, in such an hour—as incense from the temple of hearts and homes and houses of praise rises up on his behalf—comes peace and grace and, yes, even joy. No angels, no visions, no point-blank assurances. He does not rise up and walk. But we are satisfied. We are given hope. We renew our strength.
Nothing to do but wait. And yet, everything is in the waiting.