I’ve been watching a lot of baseball this fall, enjoying the simple beauty of the bat vs. the ball. A friend told me once that during a typical game, the baseball is actually in play for only seven minutes. The rest of the time is made up of pitching adjustments, beer commercials, and spitting.

I was watching the Yankees play the Phillies in game six of the recent World Series, as Yankee reliever Marte faced the heart of the defending World Champions’ lineup. What struck me was the drama of the pause, the excruciating moment between wind up and swing that happens every inning. Some pauses are easy to face, like when Mariano Rivera is pitching. Some are incredibly tense, as everyone watching waits to see if disaster or salvation comes from the result of the pitch. It’s what makes baseball so much like life.

Life is full of pregnant pauses. Moments between wind-up and swing where we can only wait and hope/dream/fear/panic/ feel cynical. When you ask your dream girl to marry you, and she draws in a deep breath before answering. When the labor pains start and you pray that everything will be ok. When your daughter walks across the stage in a shiny, crimson robe at high school graduation and you celebrate the accomplishment, while wondering what’s next. Moments, hours or days spent in-between, when things can go either way.

I was reading the gospel of St. John the other morning, looking for some encouragement as I sipped my tea. Funny how Jesus dealt with Lazarus and his illness. John writes that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. Yet when he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed where he was two more days.” A long pause.  Jesus loved them, and he stayed where he was two more days.

I have to think that the pause between Lazarus’ death and Jesus’ arrival to the tomb was full of frustration, grief, and anger. The waiting for something to happen, the dreaded moment when everything  slows down and stops like a frozen stream.  Jesus did not arrive. He did not heal Lazarus, he did not come through. Now what.

We all know the rest of the story. Jesus stands in front of the grave and shouts “Lazarus come out!” and somehow, he does. A demonstration of Jesus’ power, for sure, but also a deeper lesson. There can be grief in the pauses. And we don’t know how long the pauses will last. Lazarus’ sister, Martha, upon his arrival, points out to Jesus that her brother will be raised on the last day. Kind of like “it’s ok you didn’t come through now, I have hope in how things will end.”

And you know what? I think that was a good response. Our world is full of dreaded pauses that stretch out in length like an unraveling rope. And frankly, we don’t know. Maybe Jesus will show up in two days. Maybe in four. Maybe on the last day.

It seems that much of life is learning how to live in-between, maintaining a sense of hope, fighting apathy, even as time stretches out and the pause extends. The result of the proverbial pitch remains in doubt and all we can do is wait. But we can also choose. How we engage the wait, the pregnant pauses, may very well define us, our faith, and our life.