I know what I'm longing for, so I'll wait.

I made matzo the other day. I want to share Communion weekly with Stuart during Lent, so I made matzo last week in preparation. In my definitively un-kosher kitchen, with my thoroughly gentile hands I mixed together some flour, salt, olive oil and water in a glass bowl. I rolled it out paper-thin on my Mexican-made table. I pierced it properly with a fork. I baked it till it bubbled and browned on my handy pizza stone.

I made matzo last week, because I wanted to bring something of myself to the Lord's table this week. An offering created from my own time and effort. I enjoyed the experience. 

I'll buy the grape juice.

I wrote an order of service for our shared meal. Now, I'm all ready to wait. All ready to wait in the season of Lent as we pray and fast. Ready to contemplate the big themes of life and death. Sin and redemption. Sacrifice and obedience.

Growing up near the coast of southern Connecticut, our family spent countless days on the beach. I've walked miles upon miles on sandy coves and rocky piers, gathered a hundred pailfuls of pebbles and sea shells, jumped through a thousand plus waves crashing to the shore. Give me a blanket and a coastline and I could wait for hours contemplating life and love within earshot of the ebb and flow of the tide.

To smell the salt air, to hear the crashing of the waves, to feel the spray of the sea on my face brings a sense of belonging no other place on earth provides for me. I can wait on the beach. I can relax. I can breathe. It's there I long to remain. To wait for one more wave to crash in. 

Just one more.

Ebb and flow. The beach reminds me of the importance of rhythm in our lives. Its consistency, its constancy stabilizes me. The tide comes in. We wait. The tide goes out. We wait. We know what we long for, so we wait. 

For those of us who allow the liturgical calendar to dictate our seasonal rhythms, we notice that the Church Universal spends much of its time waiting in pregnant expectation. In Advent, we wait with hope for our Savior's birth. In Lent, we wait with ashes for our Lord's resurrection. In the days before Pentecost, we wait together for the promised Holy Spirit. We know what we long for, so we wait.

When ordinary time finally arrives, when the consistent ebb and flow of waiting and celebrating, waiting and celebrating, waiting and celebrating finally ends we may think: alas, the waiting is over. Except, it isn't. In reality, even in what we call ordinary time, it doesn't take long to remember that the Church remains in a persistent state of waiting for the blessed hope. 

Still pregnant. Still waiting. Still hoping.

The tide is still out on the final great expectation. But, in eager expectation, I'll grab my blanket, head for the coast and I'll keep a weather eye on the horizon. 

I know what I'm longing for, so I'll wait.