The waiting makes it worth it, I believe

It's late September. It's the last week of regular season baseball. It's premier week for most network television shows. It's well into the start of the traditional school year. I have yet another cold (I've lost count on how many this makes this year). I am wrapping up the semester with my students. I had an interview for a full-time job I wasn't sure I wanted two weeks ago. It started today so I'm guessing I didn't get it. And, most of all, I haven't heard anything about the pilot.

It was three weeks last Friday since we turned it into the network. And now we wait.

I have no idea what will come next. Less than none. My mind runs with the possibility and the fear and the excitement and the disappointment. So, I don't let my mind run too much.

I'm a patient person. Far more than many of you will ever know. I waited a long time to move to California. I'm still waiting for some of those things I believe God promises to each of His children. I wait and I wait and I wait. And it's not easy. And I'm no saint. I'm not a happy patient person. Not by a long shot. And I don't think I'm very good at waiting. I complain a lot. Just ask my friends and family.

But this morning as I was baking eggs for the week and making muffins for Angela's new teachers' meeting and doing laundry, all in an effort to focus my mind on something, anything, other than the waiting, I was listening to an episode of one of my favorite podcasts, Marc Maron's WTF. He was interviewing Billy Gardell, Mike from Mike and Molly. And Gardell was talking about what I was thinking about, waiting.

Now, it's not just sitting in an apartment somewhere hoping for something this waiting that we do. He was talking about the classes he took, the years he spent on the road as a standup, honing his craft. An active waiting, the farthest from the passive act we usually associate with patience. And then when he told the story about auditioning for Mike and Molly and ultimately getting the part, I cried. Right there in the kitchen, sweating as I put together egg sandwiches. I cried these happy tears for this man I have never met but enjoy on television 22 weeks a year. I cried because he waited and he made it. He finally finally made it. With $4.71 or how much ever he had in his bank account.

I cried mostly because it gave me a renewed sense of hope. That renewal I need daily. That renewal I get from the oddest places at times. From an email from someone I've never met who knows a friend of a friend who tells me "positive energy moves mountains" and that he knows I'm a good writer. From friends who check in weekly, daily, to see what I've heard or what I'm working on now. From a hug and an encouraging smile from people at church. From a favorite quote above my desk. From a bright pink rose peeking through the fence as I walk early in the morning. From the belief that I have to have to keep going.

This week I will hold true to the belief that no news is good news. I will continue to smile and answer the calls and the texts and the questions. I will grade final drafts and wrap up my class. I will cheer on my beloved Tigers and pray for a postseason run. I will make more food to wrap up and send across the country to those I hold close in my heart. I will send bright funny cards and little packages that can only make me feel a little lighter. I will splurge on Coke Zero and late night yoga and stay in bed a little later to sleep this cold away. I will know, deep down, past my heart into my soul, that the waiting makes it worth it. So worth it. No matter what it is. Because I have to believe. There's nothing else.