I’m at the gym doing push-ups. Lots of them. Side by side
with a class full of other sweaty women. I feel done. Like I can’t do this for
another second. Does the instructor even remember we’re here? I know she can do
push-ups all day, but doesn’t she care about the rest of us? We’re not like
her.
Then she breaks the silence. “Eight more, ladies!”
A second ago, I was done. I couldn’t do even one more. But
suddenly, I have new strength. I can do eight more. I just needed the promise
of an ending.
How many times have I said, “I’m done,” only to jump back on
the horse and ride it home as soon as I see the first glimpse of an ending in
sight? I was the restless high school senior who gutted out every day because
graduation was coming. I’ve always been a runner who needs to know I’ve only
got a half-mile or five minutes left to run. I’m a school mom who needs to know
that the craziness of May will give way to the serenity of June. I’m the
book editor who knows I can keep getting up at 4:30 a.m. to work because the
deadline is just four weeks away.
But today, I’m the woman who lives in the Shome, and there’s
no foreseeable end in sight. It’s not that it’s a terrible place—it’s not at
all—but, oh, how I yearn for a real house again. A house that feels like home.
It seems to me that every good life lesson that could be soaked up from this living
experience has been soaked. I feel more grateful, more aware of how other
people live, more humble, less demanding, less dependent on stuff. And yes, I
feel done. It feels a little like doing endless push-ups. And maybe my Almighty
Instructor can do this with me forever, but I’m tired and sweaty and running
out of steam.
I’m listening, waiting expectantly, to hear Him break the
silence. “It’s time,” He’ll say one day soon. “Just ___ days left.” In the
meantime, darn it, I don’t want to be a wimp. I want to finish well. I want to
finish joyfully and thankfully. I want my Instructor to be pleased. So I hang
on. Up. Down. Up. Down. Waiting for the promise of an ending.
