Quotes About Waiting

gestured to an empty chair

because sometimes it's just so damn hard to be a mother. We have to wait and wait and wait for our children to open their hearts to us. And if that doesn't work, we have to bide our time and look for the moment of weakness when we can sneak back into their lives and they will see us and remember us for the people who love them unconditionally.

In our darkest moments, when we cry out to God and wonder if He's listening, He sometimes whispers, Wait. It's a hard word to hear yet comforting as well. It means He is there, He is with us, and He has a plan, even if it is not our plan.

The woods were deserted that day. The stones stood still and silent, as though they were waiting for something. At the center of them all, a jagged piece of amber glowed in the growing darkness. Lights fizzed softly around it, turning pink, orange, purple, blue. No one saw it. No one ever did. Why would they? No one knoew about its magic, not anymore. They had forgotten all about such magic a long, long time ago. About the same time they stopped believing in faries. How foolish.

It was harder for the ones who were waiting, Annemarie knew. Less danger, perhaps, but more fear.

She's sure, absolutely sure, that what she's waiting for will happen, just the way she wants it to; and I'm so uncertain, so fearful my dreams will end up forgotten somewhere, someday, like a piece of string and a paperclip lying in a dish.

He had waited a long time for this special December. Now that it was almost upon him, he wasn't frightened, but he was . . . eager, he decided. He was eager for it to come. And he was excited, certainly. All of the Elevens were excited about the event that would be coming so soon.

Suddenly he was aware with certainty and joy that below, ahead, they were waiting for him; and that they were waiting, too, for the baby.

Just once, Pen thought glumly, he'd like to get an answer to prayers, instead of being delivered as one.

He's going to say it, I just know he is … "Let's see what happens.

Patience and exhaustion turn out to have a lot in common.

May I come in? His smile softened. The choice is yours, my Ista. As you do not deny Me, I will not deny you. Yet I would still await you, if you chose the long way home. I might become lost upon the road. She looked away.

She should have called him on the comconsole, but Illyan had been so prompt with his offer. . . . They passed the bare, baking Barrayaran garden, sloping down from the sidewalk. On the far side of the desert expanse, a small, lone figure sat on the curving edge of a raised bed of dirt. "Wait, stop!

Miles. I have to talk to you." "Just a minute." The minute became two or three or four, as he leaned against the doorframe and scuffed his boot on the patterned carpet. He knocked again. "C'mon, Simon, let me in." "Don't be so impatient, Miles," his aunt's voice admonished him firmly. "It's a bit rude." He

Waiting (a tough thing to do), focusing on other things, and trusting the Lord will take care of future hopes is much safer than looking at a new person to take the pain away.

I waited for you. All these years I watched and waited, knowing, somehow, that what we would have would be different. That it would be worth the lonely nights and the fears that I had missed you somewhere.

In one hot afternoon in the Iraqi desert while he waited for the calvary to ride in and listened to the enemy get closer, he had found something he hadn't expected to find. There, buried in a hole, he had held a woman, and somehow that woman had slipped inside his soul.

I once wrote a suicide story: A woman watches a truck bearing down toward the place on the sidewalk where she stands waiting to cross. She thinks, 'If that truck were to run me over I wouldn't have to think what to get for supper.' The truck passes. The woman crosses to the supermarket and takes out her shopping list. It was called 'Truck.

be home for quite a while yet.

You can wake from one dream only to find yourself plunged into yet another, like some endless rosary of the mind. When that happens, it is hard to glimpse what is not dream; the waking, undreamed world flies by you, in rushing flashes of light and air, in loud, quick, dangerous spaces like those between the cars of a train. There is nothing you can do. You walk in the sleep of yourself and wait. You wait for the train to pass.

She recognized the panic at even a moment's boredom that all these piles contained, as well as the unreasonable hopefulness regarding time.

We don't do that in New York, rasped Odette. She cleared her throat. No? Pinky smiled and put his hand on her thigh. No, it's, um, the cash machines. You just… you wait at them. Forever. Your whole life you're just always — her hand sliced the air—there.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. It seems old, with too much makeup. I feel stuck, out of school, working odd jobs, like someone brooding, hat in hand in an anteroom, waiting for the future as if it were some hoop-skirted belle that must gather up its petticoats, float forward, and present itself to me.

Soldiers planted like vegetables waiting for the day of harvest. … everything is more intense at night, perfectly beautiful, and when the wind shifts and the reek of rotting meat vanishes for a few blessed minutes you can smell the sweet scent of the countryside.