The Uncomfortable Gift of Lingering

Few things make me as uncomfortable as a blank document with a cursor blinking back at me when I don’t know what to write. Which is almost as uncomfortable as coffee drive-throughs with employees deliberately hovering for conversation when I haven’t had caffeine yet. Which is almost as uncomfortable as saying goodbye to a room full of acquaintances—nobody close enough that you can leave quietly and trust they’ll be unoffended but too close to ghost your way to your car. Last year, at a gathering, a friend hugged me when I arrived and firmly stated, “Don’t Irish Goodbye me.”

As I try to get my hands around what common thread runs through my discomfort, it’s the lingering. It’s empty space that seems uncertain, unproductive, and unending. What if I get stuck in this exchange or conversation and can never get out?

Lingering is defined as “slow in parting,” or “to remain existent although often waning in strength, importance, or influence.” See linger, defined at https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/linger.

Life blessedly lived long enough will inevitably be marked by lingering because our body or other life circumstances will eventually slow us down. There’s no way around it: We will learn to cope well with awkward space now, or we will tailspin later when it feels like we have little else but space.

Skipping Endings

Our family usually takes an end-of-summer trip with extended family but because of scheduling conflicts, we didn’t end Summer with that trip. Until now, I failed to realize what a pacifier this trip was on the tail-end of Summer’s fun times, late bedtimes, and little routine. In the past, there was little melting down when Summer ended because the next party—vacation—was on its way, and if we planned it right, school started days later. Skipping the tail-end of Summer meant skipping the summer meltdown.

With nothing to distract us, the exhaustion, restlessness, and discontentment set in for both me and the children. In the middle of our blahs, I wondered if I should get online and start Christmas shopping. Or start a new workout plan. Or plan some other short getaway. Or we could just hang in this unfilled space—and linger. I’m not here to tell you we were our best selves during this time. We weren’t very good; it was good for us, though.

Reexamined Treasures

It’s amazing how sweet the simple parts of life become when you take away the shiny toys. Hanging at the dinner table after the meal is finished. An unplanned phone call from a friend. Skipbo on the living room floor. Lunch with grandma. Reading to the kids. A visit from a neighbor. An evening walk with your husband. Simple things that make life ordinary reexamined as treasures because boredom renewed your eyes. There is a reexamining that happens in the blank space. Call it gratitude or remembering or contentment; they all seem to be related. I will reflect on all you have done and meditate on your actions. (Ps. 77:12 CSB). When I otherwise would have been wading around in a Colorado creek a day’s drive away from my house, I had time to sit down on my couch and list 29 ways God blessed us through the summer. Reflection is impossible to do without space, and space is impossible without limits.

Awareness

Last week, a friend called me during her workday. She works at a hospital and was driving to another location—empty space in her afternoon. “I can’t believe it; these leaves are starting to turn!” she exclaimed. Another curious thing happens when there’s space in our lives: we notice things. We notice our surroundings. We notice people.

If prayer feels hard during frantic days, running from event to event, prayer seems to become easier during gaps. I noticed that on slower days, people in need of prayer started coming to mind again. I don’t have time to intercede as much throughout my day when I’m chaotically scrambling to determine where I need to be and when I need to be there. “…[A]nd stay alert with all perseverance and intercession for all the saints.” (Eph. 6:18 CSB).

Preparation

Without spending the last week of Summer on a trip, the kids and I were able to get them ready for school gradually. We picked up their new clothes one day. Another day, we supply shopped. Another day, we had school meetings. Unlike our usual warp speed, individual preparation, we joined in each other’s preparation.

I saw this in my own mother’s life as she died from a degenerative disease that slowly took away her mobility, speech, and breathing. Out of some of the most painful lingering at death’s doorway, I watched the Lord ready Mom for her true home with Him. We were witnesses to her preparation. To our own preparation through hers.

Do we have space to even see it? To slow down and hear the Shepherd’s direction, or are we running from this to that, from excitement to excitement? Do we have space to listen well enough to the Spirit’s nudge to go here and not there? To turn back to Him when we receive His correction? To enjoy His presence without the fireworks of life?

Maybe it’s not the end of your life but the end of a season. The end of a job. The end of a role. The end of changing diapers. The end of parenting teenagers. The end of logging into your work email. The end of the family house. The end of a goal that hung unfinished for years. The end of a bittersweet project. It’s closed, or it’s closing slowly. And now what? Don’t rush to fill it. Stay here a little longer, and let it sharpen your trust in Christ’s sufficiency. Life’s nothingness, His somethingness.

The little, increasing spaces of this life are getting us ready for our true home where lingering—devoid of apathy or discontentment or sorrow—will be all we know, and that knowing will be nothing but joyful. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we first begun.” (Amazing Grace! By John Newton (1779)). Lord, let us rest in You right here, right now.

Lately

As we ever so slowly transition to Fall, I’m trying to tie up the four-ish books I’m reading. By the way, how does anybody read one book at a time, cover to cover? I think I used to do this. But now I have to motivate myself by buying a new book that I can’t start until I’ve finished my last one. But then I lie to myself and start the new book, and here we are, underneath a pile of books. I am, however, five pages away from finishing the book below. It’s been such a balm that I am dreading finishing it. Do you get sad when good books are over, too?