The Long Wait

I can barely stand to wait for water to boil. The longer I stare at the pot, the more personal it feels — as if the water is resisting all my efforts to boil it. I soon find myself triple-checking the temperature setting, fidgeting with nearby cooking utensils, wandering off, and snapping back. The same unease occurs at the grocery store checkout, where I shift my weight from foot to foot, convinced the line next to me is moving faster.

And yet, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I will happily plant an apple tree, pat the soil around its lean trunk — as I did not long ago — and wait five years or more for it to bear any meaningful fruit. Somehow, the long waits that matter most don’t feel like waiting at all.

What, exactly, defines the difference in these activities? What tempers my expectations? Maybe it’s because the important things ask us to be part of something bigger than our own schedule. Maybe it's because hope, once planted, grows quietly without needing constant proof. In the end, I think it's the small waits that test my patience — but the long ones that grow it.

Freshly Planted Apple Tree

—Mitchell Hegman