Today, I’m waiting.

I experienced a significant high last June when I secured a wonderful literary agent. (For those of you not in the publishing world, that can be one of the hardest parts. Major win!) I’ve submitted book proposals now to publishers. And now, I wait.

I’ve written openly about how challenging it’s been to come back to America from Africa when I didn’t feel ready. (At all.) I’ve thought a lot about everyday faithfulness, hoping to live the life of a quiet radical. And as I’m waiting for a “yes” or a “no” after some significant “no’s,” waiting does its usual stirring up inside me, questions bubbling to the surface, the silt making things opaque. As I thought the other day about the possibilities ahead, the prospect of hope felt like something was cracking me down the middle.