Stories of my childhood are rare, and I have few memories of my life before age five. Recently, my mother shared an early-life anecdote with me:

You sat on the floor, on your baby blanket Ma crocheted for you. You were chatting on your little phone and working on a wooden puzzle. The dog kept rolling her ball to you. You’d continue chatting and roll the ball, then get back to your puzzle. I watched you doing all of this for a few minutes and shook my head. “Amanda. That girl is busy. And my dear, you’ve been busy ever since.”

But among the busyness, there is much waiting.

Days Full of Waiting

According to a study I once read, Americans spend an average of five years of their lives waiting. While I’ve never logged my waiting hours and extrapolated them to my expected lifespan to test this statistic, I can believe it. On a typical morning, I might wait for

• my husband to get up and shut off the alarm clock
• said husband to finish in the bathroom so I could go
• the cat to finish drinking from the bathroom faucet so I could shut it off
• the dryer to stop running so I could snag a clean shirt
• my computer to boot up
• people walking in a parking lot crosswalk
• in line at the drive-thru for my morning caffeine fix
• a jogger crossing the street on a green light
• someone to switch lanes so I could pass
• various stop signs and red lights

Even with this list, I’m sure I overlooked something, a momentary waiting period so commonplace it no longer registers in my consciousness. And granted, these waiting moments combine the voluntary and involuntary. Although some might suggest that all waiting is voluntary (e.g., I could run the red light, but cutting off eight lanes of traffic from two directions seems like a bad way to start the day).

Opportunities to Be Patient

Several years ago, when I renewed my commitment to the Lord after years of aimlessly drifting through life, I read a book about how God answers prayer in ways we don’t expect. The author warned that we should be careful when we ask God for anything, as we might not like how He responds. An example the author provided was that if we ask for patience, He won’t wave His magic God wand and—voila!—we suddenly have patience. Instead, He sends us opportunities to be patient.

Something about the author’s description of how God answers prayers for desired characteristics made me realize—if I wanted to be something, I had to intentionally place myself in situations where I could cultivate that type of being.

So my experiment commenced. And playing Tetris on my cell phone to bide my time, or using other distractions, was prohibited. In the grocery store, I picked the longest line. Preferably one with screaming children, people with overflowing carts, or a person arguing with the cashier. Even if I only had a pack of gum, I waited. Driving, I stayed behind the person going at or just below the speed limit, instead of buzzing past them as soon as I could. And so forth.

At first, I scoffed. “Ha! I don’t know what the big deal is. Waiting isn’t hard at all.” I fluffed up with pride at my superior feeling that I had become The World’s Most Patient Person.

That was the first day.

Subsequent days brought the four-hour wait at my psychiatrist’s office. The two-hour traffic jam. And so forth.

“Waiting is hard!” said The Most Patient Person in the World.

Addicted to Stress?

But apparently, I’m not hardwired to wait. According to my counselor, “Well, what happens, Amanda, when we grow up in a highly dysfunctional household is that our biochemistry adjusts to accommodate the stress level. That high stress level then becomes the norm. So, you’re basically addicted to stress, and will seek out situations that raise your stress levels to what is normal for you.”

“Gonna’ have to face it, you’re addicted to stress.” My mind pictured Robert Palmer and his mannequin-esque back-up band swaying back and forth to an ’80s rhythm. “No, stop it!” I told myself. “This is important—listen!” I clutched my ever-present glob of silly putty tight, to ward off anxiety and my compulsion to pluck my cuticles into oblivion. I tried my best to focus on what my counselor said, but Robert Palmer continued to beckon to my easily distracted brain.

My counselor referred me to a psychiatrist. The last time I’d seen a psychiatrist was when I was sixteen, after a suicide attempt. That meeting didn’t go well. I hoped for better this time.

To my diagnoses of moderate depression, generalized anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, and complex post-traumatic stress disorder—the result of childhood abuse—she added a surprising, spicy enhancement: attention deficit disorder, more commonly known as ADHD.

I thought, “I can’t possibly have ADHD! I’m one of the laziest people I know. Yeah, I know I have a lot of nervous energy, but that’s from the OCD and anxiety. Isn’t it?” I always paid attention in school and got decent grades. And if you ask my husband, he’ll tell you I can focus on something and block out everything for hours—especially when he needs my help with yard work.

I had a lot to learn. About the different types of ADHD (combined, in my case), and a term called hyperfocus. And the more I learned, the more I saw this motif throughout my life. The unstable, nomadic existence, the inability to stay at a college or job very long. The revolving door of relationships.

I was on a journey of self-discovery, but God still had lessons to teach me.

Nothing to Do but Look Up

In 2010, from spring to summer, I felt like a toy winding down. I’d never had any significant health problems, so I self-diagnosed. Sleep deprived. Stressed. Not eating right. Not getting enough exercise.

I got so fatigued that I couldn’t even make it through a work day without a nap, regardless of how long I slept. When an unending pain in my side finally forced me to go to the doctor’s, within a week I was diagnosed with a grapefruit-sized uterine fibroid cyst and underwent a laparotomy to have it removed. Two nights in the hospital, six to nine weeks of recovery. For the first few days, I could do nothing on my own, even go to the bathroom. I spent most of my time in bed, reading and sleeping.

One of my sweet Christian sisters said, “When you’re lying on your back, the only place you can look is up.”

I looked. I waited. I was still. I had no choice. But I still didn’t know.

Too Much, Too Soon

September 2010, following the surgery, I was no longer still. Teaching, working thirty-two hours a week. Volunteering. Editing. Writing. My body ached. It was too much too soon. I pressed onward, subjecting my physical self through sheer force of will. Most of the time it worked. The times it didn’t, I collapsed into a pile of tears, tired muscles, and an aching abdomen.

By the end of the year, I finally knew something. After five years of marriage, my husband and I decided to start a family. Me, who never even wanted to get married, let alone have children. I was eager to discuss the plan with my psychiatrist.

She said, “You’re close, but I want to see you make more progress before we start weaning you off your meds. Daily life is still too much of a struggle, and it’s only going to get more difficult when you have children.”

I was crushed, yet I understood. I could hardly remember to feed the cat or make my husband’s lunch every day. How could I care for a tiny human being completely dependent on me for survival?

Still Against My Will

Barely a year after the laparotomy, I was back on the operating table, to have endometriosis and adhesions removed with a laparoscopy procedure. I revisited my mantra from the previous year’s surgery, Philippians 1:19–21: “For I know that this will turn out for my deliverance through your prayer and the supply of the Spirit of Jesus Christ, according to my earnest expectation and hope that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (NKJV).

Once again, against my will, I was still.

Father Knows Best

I sometimes envision the Lord like a human father, sitting at a breakfast table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. “I’ll just be sitting right over here, waiting, when you’re ready.” And like a human daughter with her human father, sometimes it takes me a while to figure out that Dad really does know what He’s talking about.

I peeked at Him over the edge of the newspaper. He smiled, folded the paper, and placed it on the table. Swigged the last bits of His coffee and rubbed His hands on His thighs. He knew that I was ready. I had learned to be still, but I had yet to know Him in the way He intends.

The transformation began. The Lord’s Spirit moved within me, calming me in ways I’d never experienced. Was this the peace that passes all understanding mentioned in Philippians 4:7?

An Opportunity, Not an Inconvenience

Suddenly, waiting in line at the grocery store was time to think about my writing projects. Waiting in traffic was time to listen to podcasts I never had a chance to hear, or blast some music and have an impromptu praise service in my car. Waiting for friends became time to get caught up on reading or work on my memory verses. Doctor’s office visits were opportunities to grade a few papers or text with my sister in New York. And waiting for my computer to boot up or a website to load was a chance for a coffee refill or time to play with the cat.

One day, I stood in line at the bank, while the teller spent almost half an hour explaining to a customer why her check had bounced (apparently the customer was unaware that banks don’t automatically cover the difference when you overdraw your account). In my mind, I recited the Lord’s Prayer, to resist my urge to pick my cuticles and dig my scalp. I prayed for the tellers, the people at the bank, my husband at work. I played a few praise songs in my jukebox-brain, tapping my foot to the rhythm only I could hear.

I wondered what God thinks of banks. I wondered what God spends the most time doing. Then I reminded myself that to God, a day is like a thousand years, and He doesn’t exist in linear time like us.

My thoughts were interrupted by the teller asking how she could help me. When I approached the window, she apologized, her face frazzled. “So sorry about your wait, ma’am.”

I smiled. “It’s okay. I’m not in a hurry.”