waiting

The summer I lived with Judy, I would wake up every morning before the paper delivery guy would drive by the house and before the newspaper would land (THUNK) on the porch. Somewhere, a baby would stir in its crib, but not wake up, and the mother would stir in her bed, and say a thankful prayer that she did not have to get up this time, and she would wonder why anyone still got the newspaper delivered when there was the internet now, before falling asleep to a dream about an old coworker she used to rely on to make her feel like she had real friends..

I would wake at 3:45 or 4am, and wait patiently for him. The absence of him would leave a quiet white noise waiting in the air. It would kill me, sometimes, to wait for him. And then his car would drive obediently towards our house, I would hear the beloved thunk of the newspaper on our porch. I would pull myself up in the bed and look out the window to make sure he got back in his car and that he wasn't crawling up the side of the house to my window. I would lie there, awake for another minute, consider what my murder might actually be like. I'd get up to go pee and then sleep a few more hours, before I would bring Judy her ice packs, and start the coffee maker and bring said newspaper to her spot on the couch where we would eat breakfast and plan our leisure time. (All of our time was leisure time). And in those days, I lived happily ever after, whether or not my murder was just around the corner.

I think of how easy it would be to make a phone call, and be back there for good.

But I think that life is supposed to be harder than that.
And I think that even my life here is much, MUCH easier than life for practically everyone else in the world. I wish I could take some of the suffering of my brethren onto my shoulders to relieve them, and to feel like I was doing something.
But God mapped this all out, and He knows, and I don't, and I just have to be patient, in the silence before the newspaper shows up. To be thankful, for now, that I am not the one delivering the newspapers at 4am, under an angry full moon.