Lord Give Me Patience … Now

By John Addyman  |  john.addyman@yahoo.com

Do you ever get the feeling that sometimes God puts a word in the ear of your minister right before the sermon — to pass along a message straight from the On High to you?

Happens to me all the time.

When my family was younger, we attended church every Sunday in Parkesburg, southeastern Pennsylvania. It was a very small congregation and we all knew each other. That was nice.

Before the mass began, the folks who assist the priest in the service got together for a short prayer before things get started…something like, “Let’s not screw it up this week, OK? Thank you, Lord.”

One Sunday in November, in our circle of hands, a neighbor asked God to offer a message, a suggestion, to the priest, Father O’Hara, which would reach through him to benefit everyone in the church. It worked.

When the time came for the priest’s sermon, he suggested that we all spent too much time getting to the next place in life and not pausing to savor what’s right in front of us, not enjoying the moment, not recording the lessons before us.

And then father used the p-word.

“It’s about patience,” he told the congregation.

He paused to let that sink in.

Uh-oh.

I usually sat on the aisle when we went to church. My wife sat to my right, then the kids.

As soon as our much-beloved priest used the p-word, everyone to the right of me in the pew shifted in his or her seat and turned to look at me.

I glanced down our row, then the row behind us and the one in front. People I know well were looking right back at me. In fact, everywhere I looked, people were staring at me. They all seemed to be saying silently, “Are you listening there, fella?”

To the credit of what good grace I possess, I maintained a blissful calm. I even nodded to note for everyone that the priest was making abundant good sense.

One of my kids, Mary Kate, was a teenager at the time. She wasn’t in church with us that Sunday because she was babysitting her cousin.

If she had been there, she’d have been sitting next to me and would have punched me in the arm as soon as Father O’Hara used the p-word. She’s like that.

My family’s custom is to do the holiday shopping early. Our oldest daughter, for instance, was a veteran of pressing her nose to the store windows early in the mornings of Black Fridays.

This particular Christmas, Mary Kate (again, my youngest) and I went shopping together on Black Friday weekend. We had the lists from her brother and sisters and mother and we visited the mall, going from store to store amidst all the holiday bustle.

When it comes to shopping, I am an alpha male. When I shop, I shop. I don’t look at every item. I don’t cruise. I don’t hesitate. I buy.

Merchants love me. If they have what I’m looking for, we have a rapid transaction and I’m out the door, making room for the next buyer.

If an item isn’t in the store, I’m outta there. I don’t waste anybody’s time.

Mary Kate, like her sainted mother, has to think through each purchase carefully, painstakingly. She considers its ramifications and colors and feel. She weighs the cause and effect. She checks the barometric pressure and warranty and contemplates the quality of music playing in the background. She notes the appropriateness and creativity of the holiday decorations in the store. She’ll pick something up and put it down and pick it up again a half-dozen times before reaching for her credit card. Merchants love her, too.

We went into one particular store with our lists. I was in and out in 90 seconds with my purchase. Mary Kate spent another half-hour in there. She is very p-wordy.

I stood outside, smiling at all the nice people doing their Christmas shopping, waiting for my daughter to finish.

When I got home, I told my wife, “I don’t think I can go shopping with Mary Kate again.”

My wife patted me on the hand and smiled. “She just said the same thing about you,” she said.