I’m holding her blue knit shawl when she asks me. My nine-year-old daughter asks me to come outside in the dim light of evening, to sit with her, to wait with her, and — to watch her — as she plays with the kittens.

She sees the shawl and the needle, because I’m about to sew a rip for her, and she says, “No Mum. Just you. Please just come, and sit, and watch. No shawl.”

I’m ashamed to say I brought the shawl. I sat and stitched and soon, she went inside, leaving me on the deck in the low light with the kittens. The request had seemed extraordinary, unnecessary. It was her shawl after all, and it needed fixing. Wasn’t I helping her by doing this? And wasn’t I still there, with her, and why did she need me to just watch? Couldn’t I do both? After all, I had an endless list of things to do like making supper and school lunches and. . .

She was gone. The moment, over. Lost, forever. And I could hear His gentle whisper. “Martha, Martha. . .” Yes, I could even hear the crack of alabaster, the splash of oil, the gasp of the disciples, “Why this waste?”

It had felt like a waste, this sitting and watching. But it’s all He asks, and it’s all He’s ever wanted.

“Remain here; watch with me,” Jesus cried in the garden, this place of Genesis where life first sprung, where God Himself walked with man and talked with him and made His home with him. We began in a garden, friends. A place of beauty and rest. A place trailing with vines and flowers and communion. But we chose to leave. We chose to toil. To sew the shawl.

After all, this is what society values, and even church, with its multiple ministries and Bible studies and the pot of coffee to fuel us onward. And in it, we miss it. We miss Him.

To wait with Him, to watch Him at work, this is what it means to abide. “As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me” (John 15:4 NKJV).

A few days later Aria tries again, kind of like how God always tries again, because His mercies are new every morning. “Mom, will you just sit and watch me play piano? Come here please, sit on this couch, and just watch.” I was happy to. And even as I sat and observed her hands moving across the ivories, even as I applauded and her hazel eyes met mine, I saw her . . . and I saw Him.

To wait on someone, as in a restaurant, means to serve them. To wait on Jesus is to serve Him. Waiting is not wasteful. It is obedience.

“Waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don’t see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.”
Romans 8:24-25 MSG

In the waiting and the watching, our souls expand, making room for joy. This is the secret place, my friends, this place of contentment as Paul calls it, this place of abide.

A few mornings later, Aria and I stood waiting for the bus together. She wore her shawl. The sun broke like alabaster and spilled pink across the morning. And my daughter sang, “I am thankful. . .”

Oh, the things our children teach us, friends. Let’s not miss it for the world.

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