Graced Waiting


Graced Waiting

Then Jesus said to them,
"Do not be afraid. 
Go and tell my brothers
to go to Galilee; 
there they will see me."

St Matthew 28:10

Somewhere tucked away in a shoe box of old family photos, there is one of a small boy, digging space for new plants in the garden. 
His dad is there, giving enough space for learning and independence, watching as a new gardening generation emerges.

The memory of it comes back to me every year when I see the rows of seeds for sale in the garden centre. I scan along, looking for old favourites such as pom pom dahlias, poppy seeds of any kind, and always, always, 
rust coloured French Marigolds.
This year was no different, except I had to order online.

The marigold seeds are a long cream and black husk, always bunched up until they are shaken into the hand; and I recall a great uncle‘s open palm showing me how to lift seeds out into the soil, one by one, without losing any.

And then the wait. Watching for the strike. Waiting for signs of growth. Willing them to soak in moisture, stimulate growth, push out of their seed husk, and up towards the light.

Last weekend was the potting on.
Loosening seed tray compost, teasing out groups of plantlets, and settling into the new pot is not to be rushed. This year, fifty one little plants emerged. 
Not bad from a pack of fifty seeds. 

Most evenings I pop in and out of the green house. 
It’s now part of a new routine. And each time, that familiar smell, a bit like tomato plants; a sour and starchy pungent smell catching the nostrils.

And still the wait.

There’s nothing else for it, but to water, and mind the temperature, and watch for slugs, and wait.


And if I do, roots will form, almost daily height will be gained, and flower buds will appear. And then, after last frosts, they can be carried out, and planted in the same way I’ve done for 40 years,
or more.

The wait will have been worthwhile.
They will grip the soil, and get away, showing off their rust and orange ruffles, just a few inches from the ground, until first frosts in October.

Learning to watch and wait.

Waiting came to mind this week as someone nearby mentioned ‘Graced Waiting.’

It was, I think a typo, but the phrase set me thinking.
Our very first brothers and sisters, themselves not more than young Christian seedlings, were set for a very particular planting out. They hadn’t much time for hardening off, and potting on; the harvest was there in front of them, ready to be attended to.

They were only adjusting to the news of the Risen Christ, when he asks them to return to Galilee and wait.

To wait until he would come to them. Both to minister to their confusion, and their questions and their doubt. And also, to get them ready for the times ahead.
The waiting must have been filled with questions: How could they relate to the resurrected Jesus? How long might He stay with them? Didn’t He speak of returning to His Father, 
and of sending a Comforter?

Waiting can be endlessly frustrating. 
But sometimes there is nothing else for it.
Some things have to be adjusted to, 
acknowledged and worked around.
The idea of Graced Waiting fascinates me, 
as I think about how to hand even the most difficult 
and seemingly insurmountable things over to God.

At home, it might be about learning a new patience and acceptance, as we all adjust to these unexpected days. 
We could rail and complain, or take time to bring the needs we have before a listening Father.
One who gives enough space perhaps for learning and healthy independence.

In ministry, it can be about bring those concerns and needs for church and parish and future, before the Lord and asking for His grace to help us wait until His time for renewal might come.

Graced Waiting. A patient time, a time of looking on, and trusting that the expected growth is making its way. At first underground, gaining from the Living Water, then bursting up and out, towards the Light, seeing growth day by day.


But for now, I must wait. 
Everything I can do has been done.
The rest is up to Him.

I simply look forward to the planting out. Remembering my own father, and his wisdom in giving me space to grow. Amen.

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