Last year, I was blessed to go on a pilgrimage that took me to Munich and the Bavarian forests. We also visited sites in Austria, Slovakia and Hungary, but it was in Bavaria that I felt a sense of coming home; my great-great-grandparents met on the ship coming over to America from different parts of Bavaria, both of them striking out on their own with hopes of miracles and the promises of the New World.
Waiting is hard. Waiting for pain that you know is coming is the sweat of the Agony of the Garden. Waiting for a joy that you hope for is the extended, held breath of Holy Saturday. Right now, I’m waiting for a new baby to arrive, and each day past my due date is an exercise in patience, hope, trust and acceptance.