Much of my life, there have been moments when I prayed for patience. Surely all of us, at one time or another, have been admonished against such a foolish plea. For patience, as with most things worth our wanting, comes only when paid for – with struggles, sorrow, and sleepless nights.
But I was talking with a friend about my father (daddy) and the treasure that is sometimes torturous – the gifts of holding on and the gifts of letting go. It’s a talk that opens us up, allowing in clarity of that which matters most.
The Tennessee Vols play their first home game this Saturday, and while I’d love for them to win, it’s nowhere on my list of what matters most. It matters to me only because it matters to others I love. But on my list? Not even in the top ten thousand.
I find myself unable to focus on anything much beyond the weekend, beyond the sharing of a moment which can be stretched to hold an eternity. A touch, a stillness, an understanding which eclipses everything else I know.
But patience – yeah, I pray for that. I imagine God is getting a bit giddy, waiting for my daddy. I imagine him sitting on the front porch of heaven with a couple of cane poles. I suspect he’s got some company too – after all, it’s been a long wait for many, and surely the fish are always biting.
“I ask you to be patient. He’ll be home soon enough. But, if You don’t mind my asking – not today. Be patient.”
Love is the permanent reminder of the places we’ve known, the times we’ve shared, and home, we never thought to leave.
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