My fingers are covered in post-it glue.

I’ve been furiously planning; leafing through pages and pages of “visit here!” slogans and photos of larger-than-life castles, endless greenery and hearty bowls of potato stew. My notes are scribbled and stuck everywhere… from “pack a sweater!” to “eat here!” to “how much is 10 euros?”

In a few months, my cute husband and I will be flying over the Atlantic to visit Ireland for 10 days of vacation and exploring. It’s months away and still I could hardly sleep last night; counting the seconds until I get to see those impossibly beautiful cliffs and otherworldly ruins.

All my life, I’ve wanted to travel. Ever since I learned about the Egyptian pyramids in grade school and then heard the impossible words “they’re still here,” I’ve been determined to see “Out There.”

But my husband and I are only a few years out of college, and travelling money hasn’t been easy to come by. Neither, for that matter, has gas money or rent money or eating-something-other-than-oatmeal-for-dinner money. Don’t get me wrong; we’ve had a blast navigating the beginning of our marriage and the art of creative money-saving (did you know Frisbees can make perfectly good dinner plates?) But in my heart of hearts for the past few years, I’ve been anxiously sweating over my desperateness to travel.

So when God gave us the gift this year of financially being able to hop over to the Emerald Isle, something happened. I said these words to my husband:

“I feel like my life just stopped being something I was waiting for.”

Oh, to repent of that thought!

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt the gravity of how deeply I was betraying the significance of the years I’ve already lived. These years haven’t been significant in that I cured cancer or converted multitudes. Rather, they are significant because they were Now.

God exists now. God says “I Am.” Not “I Was” or “I Will Be” or “I’ll Be Ready For You When You Get That Thing You Want.” He Is, Now, always.

During my travel-less years, when I’ve answered the phone at work, He’s had something to teach me. When I’ve bought milk and eggs at the store, He’s had something to show me. When I’ve ironed Aaron’s work shirts, again, He’s longed for me. When I dreamed fitful dreams of far-off places I didn’t think I’d ever see, He tried to help me fix my eyes, instead, on Right Then.

One of the most miraculous gifts that God gives his people is that every second we breathe is significant; because in these seconds, we can commune with Him.

Even though I still can’t wait for our trip and to see the wonders of God’s Irish creations that I’ve post-it-marked up and down, I want to live Now and realize that I can commune with God both in the break room at work and at the Glendalough monastic ruins.

And that communion, my friends, is what we were waiting for. But then He came, and died. And rose.

Stop waiting.

By Maria B

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