With provisions for the way, I rush to the bus stop certain my bus will arrive at any moment. When I get to the tachana I see people spilling out into the street, each waiting for different buses. I take a seat on the bench in the corner of the bus stop among the many people, and I wait for my bus to arrive.
Soon I see a bus approaching, and I anticipatorily get up and step into the street ready to board what I am sure is my bus. Rav Kav and money in hand, I glance at the kav number, and I realize that this is not my bus. Disappointed, I step back and sit back down, watching as other travelers hurriedly board the bus and the bus pulls away into the busy traffic.
More buses come and go, and each time I am certain that this will be my ride. Sometimes I think it is my bus and I stand up, walk toward it, maybe almost board, only to realize it is a 36, not a 39, or 56, not a 52. Alas, I am left alone with my now crumpled 50 shekel bill and sweaty 10 shekel coin. The other travelers have gotten on their buses, and I am alone at the bus stop waiting for my bus.
As I wait, I ponder the truths of waiting. Just because there are other buses coming and going does it mean that my bus is any nearer to arriving? Would it not be better for the 36 not to come only getting my hopes up to only later crash as I realize it is not my bus? As I sit waiting at the now relatively quiet tachana, I recognize that my bus can come at any time even if it is not preceded by any other buses.
Waiting, it’s a funny thing. There's the hopeful, excited anticipation of those before childbirth, new parents waiting to hear the cry of their tiny infant, to hold him in their arms. There's the waiting of the commuter, irate, as he waits for the delayed train that will bring him late to work. The slightly anxious, but mostly loving, waiting of a mother as she peers down the street after her child's first day of school, waiting to welcome him home to a hug and warm snack. The apprehensive waiting of a patient as he awaits the results of a crucial test that could mean life or death. The hopeful waiting, sometimes sad, sometimes mad, but mostly longing, of a girl waiting to meet her intended and start a new life together.
Is it the situation itself that shapes the flavor of the waiting? Perhaps it's the meaning that we give to the scenario. What is it about waiting that's so inherently frightening? Is it because with every circumstance we don't know exactly when or what will be? Perhaps it's the lack of control that is scary. Although we may recognize that there's a Master Planner in control, it's hard to give up our illusion of control. We want what we think is good for us, and it's hard to reconcile when we can't have it or don't know when or if we will.
Perhaps we can celebrate the waiting and elevate into something greater, an event of its own. And so, I put away my Rav Kav, put away my money, and I sit quietly with my open tehillim. I have done all I can to ready myself for the arrival of my bus, now I can only sit and wait for it to arrive. That, it seems, is not in my hands.
Here I stand at my proverbial bus stop. Life rushes me by, yet sometimes, somehow, slows to a virtual standstill. I feel like I have made all the necessary hishtadlus to find my bashert, and so I wait. I greet every arriving bus with the anticipation that this could be my ride. I try not to get disillusioned when none of the buses are mine. I strengthen my resolve when the bus stop gets quiet and my friends have all gone on their journeys, but I do sometimes wonder where my bus is and what is taking so long. It is at these times that I remind myself that “no bus” or “wrong bus” does not mean my bus is not far behind.
