The spaces in between

I love that phrase.
People often say they're in between jobs. Or marriages. Or residences. All of life is transition, it seems. Or waiting. The illusion is that things are fixed. Even if someone stays in the same house most of his life, or keeps the same job, transitions swirl around him. The trick, as Shakespeare suggested: "To thine own self be true."
Another dimension of space: The waiting for news. Is it a boy or girl? Is it cancer or not? The funeral isn't here but I want it to be, and then over.
Those are real holy spaces. Packed with intense emotion, for sure, but almost as-if-time-stops spaces. If you're in one of those times, you wonder how other people can walk by without a clue of what's going on? How can Betty stand there and bake that bread while I'm waiting for the phone to ring from the doctor's office?
How do you use these in-between spaces? Myself? It's generally a mixture of the holy and the profane. I fret and worry and pray and live and talk and obsess and ... wait. One time I waited on something for 15 months. It wasn't the news I'd hoped.
But even if bad news comes, there's an ending. A glorious ending.