Even in the Woebegone -- Merry Christmas!

Woebegone? Definition:  of woeful appearance; looking sorrowful, mournful or wretched.

What comes to mind at this time of year is Charlie Brown’s little Christmas tree.  Listing to the left, bereft of branches, and, but a single ornament or two. 

Lately that is how I have felt.

 

Listing to the left.

Bereft of branches,

Only a single ornament or two.

2016, a year of surprises, quick turns, not flip flops exactly, but bumper cars without the safety walls.  It’s been the smoothest year of not smooth I’ve ever encountered. I’ve had my share of “open doors of opportunity”, “didn’t see that coming,” or experiences where the only response was, “Uh?!”

For those who read me, you know that mostly I am not alone on this journey – mostly I am with the God of my understanding, God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

But as with any healthy relationship, there is mystery, there is a deepening, and for me, generally, there is a get-down with God about the “Uh’s”?  I know from my relationship with the Lord, that there is ALWAYS something to learn – about myself and about my God and what He is doing.  And in this Christmas season, I have noticed my listlessness and wondered about my lack of wonder.

I have walked with Jesus for 34 years.  And as I have pondered about the ups and downs of this year, I spent time reminiscing about my first Christmas spent as a born-again Christian.  And the true WONDER, awe, and excitement about it! 

Looked pretty woebegone on the outside for sure.  I was separated from my second husband, a single parent, no money, on the verge of losing the roof over my head– do you hear the violins?

For the record, the little drummer boy was my favorite Christmas song. And the poignancy of that song, still resides in my heart today.

Along with the profound remembrance of how precious the birth of Jesus was to my heart and the excitement of wanting to celebrate His birth!

Not able to afford a Christmas tree, I had an idea that I wanted a Jesse tree, which is a little tree with branches bereft of leaves, so that only homemade decorations could adorn it – ornaments truly born of a heart and hands to celebrate the season for which we sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy!”

Walking my two-year old around the block on a cold, windy, day two weeks before Christmas, I had one thing on my mind – GET HOME!

Behind me I heard a loud crack, and the sense something had fallen.  I turned around, and there it was—

My first Christmas tree – a Jesse tree.  I knew.  I saw the gift.

I cried and picked up what was a paltry little set of branches blown from a large tree moaning from the wind.  But it was perfectly proportioned.  I hurried home, stroller, baby, little branches and all.

I am not particularly a crafty person.  Well okay, my friends are reading this.  I can’t craft, period.

Didn’t matter – Bible verses written on parchment, little red ribbons, homemade angels, stick figures fashioned out of a lot of things – it was a beautiful little tree, fashioned out of my love, out of my heart, out of a life filled with woebegone, for the one I loved.

Jesus.

Last week in an ice storm trees split and lay torn all over the city.  I struggled with my motivation to feel the Christmas spirit. Was my heart weary from my  life changing beyond my control, experiences I didn’t and don’t understand, a world around me with people I love, grappling with challenges beyond my ability to fix?

This morning I looked upward, and bowed down.  On my knees.  Words of my condition stuck in my brain too easily wanting to fix it all.

I couldn’t. I can’t.

But, on my knees, I cried out the one thing I knew in my heart.  “Thank you for coming Jesus, thank you!” Woebegone or not, when I arose from my knees, I felt peace.

My prayer?  A whisper of my first Christmas with Jesus, a fanning of the flames of my heart of my portion of faith which was Jesus’ gift to me.

Though I didn't expect answers on that day of prayer, they came.  

It was a Jesse tree type day! 

Ornaments of my feelings of barrenness hung on a life with crooked branches, but in perfect proportion to God’s plan.

 I received exciting news from a good friend about refreshment and empowerment – a “happening” which just that morning exploded out of a prayer group at my church.  Was it their prayers that led me to my knees in the first place?

Later, I hurried to grocery shop before snowflakes turned to a “weather event,” but I stopped, jumped out of my car to hug and say good-bye to my neighbors as they loaded their U-Haul truck to leave a house lost to hard times.  Hugs and tears, they thanked me for loving them.

Then, as I loaded groceries into my car, a crippled homeless man in a worn jacket approached me in a now steady snowfall for “spare change.” My heart broke for him, and for my own inability to give him anything more than a paltry hand-out. I gripped his hands to warm them in mine and said in a faltering voice, “Jesus loves you.”

Another miracle.  We hugged in the now heavy snow fall, and with steady bright eyes, he smiled at me, “He loves me every day.”

 Awestruck, I climbed back into my car aware that this homeless man had given me the greater gift. Heavily falling snow and traffic jams once again took my focus on the burden of daily living!

Finally home, groceries unloaded, and sitting in my “chair” with a cup of hot tea, tree lights twinkling, I felt a stirring in my heart. Suddenly, quietly, but definitively, God was speaking.

  

Instinctively, I bundled up again to walk around my neighborhood in the silent beauty of newly fallen snow, Christmas lights gently welcoming the freshness of a blanket covering fallen branches of only a week ago. 

Just like the Jesse Tree.  I trod in the snow, looking at the houses, for the most part knowing who lived there.  Their joys, their sorrows.  This was not my turf.  It is God’s, and He has placed me here -- to live, to breathe, to commune in victories and sorrows with my neighbors.  To pray for them, and let them be who they are to me.

A peace fell upon my spirit as I walked, once again, understanding that in the woebegone, life is there.  Because of Jesus.

My questions of how to respond, of my angst at not having enough to spread around in this hurt-filled world, and how in my aging body, I can do anything, were suddenly, clearly answered.

I stopped in the beauty of the moment of God’s creation.  Full circle? Is it so simple that in my barrenness, answers, ornaments fall where they may, where God intends?  Is it so simple to surrender to daily life where we live and breathe, and resurrect a naked little tree with our love and ornaments?

I think it is.

Merry Christmas!

THE JURY IS IN!

OOPS! Sorry for the technological foul-up last post which was NOTHING THERE!  My fault.

In THE JURY IS STILL OUT, I reflected on the past summer and early fall as I experienced life in a whirlwind, but wondering what lies ahead?  The question I asked myself in that blog was "How will I respond?  With love, grace, authenticity and courage?"

One thing about God.

He will answer.  IN HIS WAY.

This morning as I arose to tackle the piles mounting on my desk, I put on worship music, and pondered on Romans 6:13.  "Do not yield your members to sin as instruments of wickedness, but yield yourselves to God as men who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments of righteousness." (Revised Standard Version)

Not even thinking about my own questions buried in the day's agenda, God grabbed me with this verse.  Suddenly I forgot about the tyranny of the urgent as I felt the presence of  God descend upon me.

Sitting in His grip, He had my attention now.  So, HE ASKED ME HIS QUESTIONS!

What would happen if you prayed with compassion for Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and Barak Obama?

What would happen if you prayed for every kid that showed up at your door, Halloween and all?

What would happen if you ditched negativity and began to see with God's eyes every human being in your daily life with a touch, a smile, or a nod?

What would happen if you upped your tips to those who serve you?

What would happen if you rejoiced over your dear husband,  his strengths, his weaknesses every day of your life?

What would happen if you danced with joy over your child as I, the King of Kings, grow him up?

What would happen if you did as I, the Lord Jesus Christ, suggested that you do on N.E. 162nd street -- that is, take a lawn chair, set it up in the parking lot of every apartment complex (42 to be exact) and just be.  Pray.  Think.
Watch.  Smile,  And SEE.

What would happen if you invited someone you didn't know into your home who is homeless to sleep on your couch?

What would happen if someone pulled a gun on you?

What would happen if you were stalked by a pimp because you were housing one of his prostitutes? Would you pray for him too?

What would happen if you sold your house, and slept with the homeless on the cold, rainy streets?

What would happen if you danced with Me, Your God in the rain?

What would happen if you shouted out with the glee of being My child whether on the streets or inside the church?

What would happen if you sold out for My Son, Who died for you, Jesus?

The rumble of an almighty God stirring His child.  I am stirred.  Shaken and sobered.

Stay tuned and walk with me through this next season.  As of this morning, I am in a new Stead, allowing His standards to work on this broken vessel as the Holy Spirit works. Remember, I asked how I would respond -- in love, grace, authenticity, and courage?

And He answered.  With His questions.

THE JURY IS STILL OUT

An eventful summer.

I learned lots and connected lots.

I lost the white spaces on my calendar.  Appointments over appointments. (Remember six months ago? I had plenty of white space on my calendar! Headed for the hills, grabbed Andrew Murray's WAITING ON GOD and had lots of contemplative time!)

Not so this summer,

 Either my extrovert ways grabbed me by the nape of my neck and pulled me into an extreme vortex of connectivity, OR, I took total advantage of walking through new open doors with zeal and excitement.  I will claim the latter.

Caught up with friends I hadn't spoken to for 20 years, met in a book study with others, and together we explored our own vulnerability and authenticity.  I listened to incredible testimonies from pastors of other cultures who honored me with their stories.  Once again, I climbed to a higher vantage point with my own perspectives.

And, I responded with due diligence to the call of jury duty.  Be still my beating heart.

I gritted my teeth over the November election.  I "rumbled" with God (to use 'Rising Strong"author' Brene Brown's terminology) about what in the world is my response to be?!

I regained my love of cooking again, thanks to my adult son Tony, whose meals melt in my mouth, and who is a joy to co-create with!

I smiled at my tiny weeny green thumb experiment as my favorite geranium  survived last winter and screamed at me with spectacular blooms, "I AM ALIVE!  YOU DIDN'T KILL ME!"

I had cataract surgery.  NOW  I can see clearly. I turn off the news, and go to prayer instead.

I ramped up my technological expertise.  I upgraded to Iphone 6 in spite of my husband's warnings that he could not help me with Apple stuff.

Ah ha!  he was right!  I had to be a big girl.  ONCE AGAIN.  Most techies are okay, but my son is the gentlest at responding to his mother's ignorance.  Does that make me a big girl?  Or, a grateful mother.

I vowed that after last year's family intervention with my fanatic football fervor, I would scale it down this year.  No sweat after watching frantic flailing by the Oregon Ducks.  Wow.

A new season is upon us, and THE JURY IS STILL OUT, on the following:

On whether I can finish my novel before the end of next year.  So far, I love my characters!  After all, I created them!  (Note to self:  Is that how God the Father feels about us?)

After marching out of my last jury duty stint in June, I was assured that for two years, TWO YEARS, I would not be called again.  Someone do the math -- I have a summons at my right hand to report for jury duty November 7th.

The election and the future of this country. I strongly suggest reading Beth Moore's "The Scandal of the Election 2016.  A good friend  sent it to me amidst my rumbling thoughts of"Oh Lord! what is to become of  us?" Moore's take not only grounded me from the craziness swirling around the country, but she encouraged me.  Take the time to read it!  It is worth it.

I am convinced that the storms of life will continue.  You think? Question is, how will I respond?

With love, grace, authenticity, and courage?

As I have listened and watched issues cross my life's path this past summer, I am moved to dig and share a little deeper, watch a little closer, love a little more, show grace in the midst of uncertainty and be brave in trying.  Love to have you join me as I unfold a new blog  in the next months, which plays more to my journalistic instincts. As I have experienced in my adventures of late, we can disagree and still find common ground.  For me, I need to practice this more!  So come join me and we can practice together.  The blog is still unnamed, if you have any suggestions, let me know!

"Coffee's On" will continue as always.  My lighter, more random side.

For now, thanks a latte for joining me.  (Had to do it.)

BLACK OR WHITE?

Just when you think things cannot get more divisive, they do. 

As recent events in our country erupt, I watch black Americans and white Americans shoot, one to another, and I struggle to respond, not react.

 As a Christian, I know I am an alien in a foreign country (Hebrews 11).  I know that unity is the answer; love heals all; and that what I see in front of me,

Is not it!

Can I solve the myriad of problems we see unfold?

No.

Can I be honest about my own reactions?

Yes.

In an inter-racial event last summer, my own prejudices grabbed me, and exposed a naked ugliness that exploded from the nooks and crannies of my heart.  Surprised me.  Why?

Because if you had asked me prior to the incident, my answer to “Are you prejudiced?” would be, “No!”

Reflection upon that answer alone embarrasses me.  The pride, the glibness, and more to the point,

The unknowing of my own heart.

Jeremy (not his real name) changed my unknowing, to a painful knowing.   The scene?  My neighborhood last summer, hot, humid, Friday evening.  I partnered with a team, two African-Americans who focused on the black community – the program, tagged 11:45, purposed teams who consistently “showed up” to be a solution, a listening ear, a hug, a prayer.

We wore chartreuse tee-shirts, and walked the area every Friday night during the summer.

Most of you know, I am white, a senior, and – well to be honest, not much in tune with what I witnessed that summer.

My journal began to foreshadow my true feelings, “I feel invisible during these walks, and I don’t like being invisible!” But wait!  It gets worse.

Jeremy’s apartment building set the scene – kids playing in the parking lot, the hot concrete their only playground on that hot night –T.V.’s blaring through windows with no screens, and adults hanging out windows to catch a breeze.  Jeremy approached our team immediately, his conversation grew more heated as his evident anger increased, and he shouted, “This god-forsaken neighborhood, I am sick and tired of those blankety-blank no-goods taking over my neighborhood and sending me to this white slum!”

A push-me-over-the-cliff moment!  My own anger rose, I clenched my fists, I felt short of breath, and I knew without a doubt that I could have, WOULD have thrown a punch, had a pastor not been by my side (and probably praying!) My thoughts, crystal clear, screamed “Then get out you dirty rotten scoundrel.  This is my neighborhood, and I don’t like the likes of you in this place!”

A come-to-Jesus moment.

I wish I could report that instantly I saw the error of my own prejudice.  I didn’t.  That MY neighborhood indeed was NOT MINE!

Over the next months, I journaled, sat with those on my team, confessed my true feeling, submitted my resignation to the team (they refused, and loved me into staying), and talked much with my black friends about my own feelings, confused.

My journals are rich with our conversations – and perhaps they will find their way into a deeper essay.  But as I recognized my own predilections based upon my own experiences, I owned them.  I see that as a white person, I can never fully empathize with a black person’s pain, induced in a society where I am in the majority. I can understand that I don’t understand.

 Cultural differences are real, but the richness all the more evident as connections are forged.  I will end with a quotation of a good friend whose response to our dialogues sums up my heart as well.

“The default in this country is white.  There’s food and ethnic food, there’s history and black history.  I will know this country has truly made progress when history includes all history.  Right now all folks need to acknowledge and appreciate and COMPREHEND (italics mine) the value in the differences and diversity of people.”

I, personally, am on a new journey.  I have work to do. 

But God.

 -

Big Girl Pants

What happens when you wait on and listen to God?

Well, He is eager to give you His side of the story.

On many things . . . .
    How much He loves you
    Where to focus prayer
    How He is ordering your day and your steps
    AND, where He wants you to focus your time and energy during specific seasons

Such is the case with me this season after heading for the hills last year to “re-group, readjust, reassess.”  The 3 R's.

And after I spent some time freeing my schedule, and slashing good things (notice GOOD things) from my calendar, I tried to lurch into the reassessing stage.

HOLD ON, NOT SO FAST!  saith the Lord.  The white correction ink had barely dried from the erasures on my calendar, when the phone fell silent. To wit: my days went from busy and long to silent and long. With those silent and long days came some anxiety, boredom, frustration (What is the deal here, Lord?), and I found myself wandering aimlessly around the house and then the streets.  Suddenly on the way to the grocery store one day, I discovered a new treasure.

Peace.

I almost heard the Lord sigh as if to say, "Ah, now we can talk!"

My quest to peace didn't end there.  Then and only then did the Lord talk to me about what He wanted me to do this season – write. “Your heart, your soul, your mind to your pen, and your pen to your paper.”

For those who know me, I have spent better than 50 years speaking my heart, my mind, and my soul.  It took the Lord more than a few years to shut me up!  Now that He has shut me up, He wants me to open up again, this time with the written word.

Isn't that just God though!!!

Now, I have no idea -- NONE -- as to what to write.

Starting this blog I believe was like sitting down to a piano after years of not playing -- practicing scales, stumbling over notes, establishing habits and patterns.  Though it was spotty at best, I did manage to establish a rhythm and garner a few followers.

So thank you followers!

But when I signed up for a writer's class and a critique group last month for the first time in 20 years, and assignments started coming down, I realized that to write one's heart, one's mind, and one's soul takes what we resist in order to bear the fruit,

work and the time to do that work.

I've been resisting -- but when faced with my first writing assignment in a very long time, I realized that I have grown. I did not want to write what had begun to come more easily -- my blog, or my journals. I wanted to stretch!

So, I dusted off a novel which has been shelved for 20 years, rewrote parts of it, took a deep breath, and laid it upon the altar of the critique group to sock it to me!

I lived through it!  Most of all I learned what I learned from waiting on God -- this is a process.  He does want me to write, but why?  Who knows!!!  Every writer fears just about everything there is to fear in facing a blank page.  And more.  But I stepped over the comfort of familiar.  And the unfamiliar -- when I took the first step, was whoa!  OUT THERE!

So, for me, what is out there now, will not be out there six months from now if I continue "practicing." What I know now, is that God is with me in this venture, and if He wants me to write, then, I best do it.  Fearful as I am, this round, I put my big girl pants on, and took a step to the next level of being a big girl. And for now,

that feels really good.

Moving! It takes a Village!

Moving!  It takes a Village!

Call these times crazy, call me crazy, but what I know is that --

In these times when decisions come at me hot and heavy, and the gray matter leaves with the same intensity, I NEED THE PEOPLE AROUND ME!

Once again in my current life challenge, I am aware that IT TAKES A VILLAGE!  To wit:  my adult son Tony is moving in with us this weekend.  Life has thrown him a curve ball or two in the past year, and we all bit the bullet, took a deep breath, and said "We can do this!"

Everyone who moves knows in their BONES the agony of sorting, boxing, selling, lifting, breaking, tired beyond reason, and while I have not had to go through all of that -- I've faced the spatial dynamics of moving, squeezing, bloodletting stuff, and waving down strangers in the street to make a home for all of my house plants, saying good-bye to china I never use, and

downsized again in the house 1/3 the size of the house we moved out of when we downsized the first time.  REALLY?

Because -- WHERE DID I GET ALL OF THIS STUFF? And, someone is moving in here?
My God in heaven!  Help!

After sweat, blood and tears, albeit with much prayer, today, I look at my now empty office--- 18 shelves cleaned out, files, oh dear God in heaven help me sweet Jesus!, 13 years of Mary Kay inventory relocated, desks, journals, stacks of paper of my half-finished novel, 137 pens, two boxes of envelopes left over from the depression, three boxes of stationery begging for one of those pens to hit the paper, and not a few tears.

My sweet friends are praying, really praying because they know me, they know Tony, they know Brian, and they know this will be a new journey for all of us.

My dear neighbors are rooting for us, because in one way or another, they've been through this journey, and another is storing the treasures ready to go somewhere else in his garage.  It takes a village.

My cat and dog are nervously eyeing the piles of boxes, and desks, and computer monitors suddenly appearing in the dining room -- home of my new office. 

Well, no more dinner parties for awhile.  But another team of dear ones are the event planners anyway -- threw a birthday party for me last summer to end all birthday parties.  In short, not my strong suit, but I am blessed by theirs.  It takes a village.

I strode into the room just emptied -  I said a prayer, cried a few tears at the life lived in that room, at the gifts the Lord had given me in that space, took a deep breath, and smiled.

Register me ready.  For the journey ahead.  For more life to be lived.  For more lessons to be learned.  Yes, Yes, the process of sifting, shifting, is moving to stabilizing --

the next season of our lives.  Thank you Lord.  Thank you.

 

Sacred Tea Time with My Friend Kathleen

Recently another writer friend and I shared tea -- difference was that:

It was my morning, her evening
Rain pelted on my window and snow fell quietly in her yard
My house cleaner speaks English -- hers does not
My doctor is in the neighborhood - hers is in a major city four hours away

You might have guessed by now that this is a friend of mine who is in another country.

Skype is our best friend right now.  Truth is that a year ago, she had a health crisis which scared us both.  Most of you know by now, that I am on the back roads when it comes to technology. She is not.  Thinking that she did not have much time left, she pleaded with me to get onto Skype.

My husband bought me a new computer for my birthday last year and set me up again with Skype. I have had it in the past, but computer issues rendered it useless until now. 

So now we meet for "tea" every Tuesday morning.  God has given us sacred time.

Our sacred time.

She is the one who insisted on traversing to England as a missionary, married an Englishman after many years serving in England, and don't ask me the story, ended up in Latvia, first on a sheep farm where they built a chapel on their land, and then as Kathleen's health got worse, moved to a home in a small Latvian village.

We have been good friends, closer than sisters, for 25 years. Talking through e-mails, snail mail, long-distance (not cheap!) then cell phones.  We didn't do homing pigeons. All in all, we have only been in the same country for four of those years.

 But God.

When my husband and I lost everything in the recession 15 years ago and Brian struck out in an 18-wheeler to scrape together anything that resembled money, I stayed behind in our family home of 28 years, packing, crying, waiting for the big bad wolves to repossess our home.

Play the violins, it was Christmas.  Kathleen, God only knows how, flew into Portland to console me.  First thing she insisted was that we put up a Christmas tree amidst piled up boxes, and pregnant sadness everywhere. 

Really!!! ?????  I asked.   A gleam in her eye, she took me by the hand.  (She adores Christmas).  Like a trooper possessed, we picked out a tree, bigger than we really could handle, managed to erect it, decorate it, and ignored the fact that it listed perilously to the left.

We bought Christmas socks,  a favorite tradition of hers.  She loves Christmas socks! We had Christmas dinner for those close to us, we prayed for Brian as he took his 18-wheeler through New York City on Christmas Day,  we attended a Christmas luncheon honored as guests of Luis Palau (don't ask), and she held me in her arms many times as I cried over my uncertain future.

I traveled to England several years later when an intercessor friend footed my travel expenses with the exclamation, "You've been called to England!"

Indeed!

A golden time of ministry and friendship; a golden time of gathering with English pastors, intercessors, saints warring against impinging terrorism, as was the U.S. shortly after 9/11.  It was still a time when allies stood together, as did brothers and sisters of the Lord and we all felt God's presence as we lived those glorious three weeks.  Prayers flew across the pond to my husband and son, still struggling to regain stability during the recession.

As is always true, sisters don't always see eye to eye.

We've had those times too.  Living in different countries doesn't always mean you skip over the hard parts.  You just navigate differently.

As writers, perhaps we look at life differently.  Sometimes more reverently. Sometimes with brutal honesty. Maybe because we are in the latter stages of our lives, continents apart, time is a very precious commodity. The gift?

Intimacy. Freedom. Love.

Loss is shared, hopes dashed, pain, physical and emotional, ejaculated into a plain of solidarity, and finally, laughter!  I am in her bedroom, because that is where she spends most of her time-- her dog jumps up and smiles in the screen; Gunther, my Australian shepherd, will have no part of it.  But my cat Maggie, spends much of her time walking across the screen, oblivious to the intimacy.

Ian, her Englishman husband, who I have met in person only once, is now more than a brother in the Lord.  In the last round of Kathleen's battles with her health, we met over Skype, cried, cried and cried some more, prayed and prayed some more.

Kathleen came home again, but in great pain.

This type of intimacy has its price.

I have watched my friend's physical pain, as she winces, as she puts on a brave face, as she bares her heart, questions and all.  She, too, has been there for me, as I have travailed through tremendous loss, different than hers, but intense. She was here  in the states to see my son Chris for the last time before his suicide --  again God's provision when she was not all that well.

But God.

We first met years ago when we were called to lead a ministry called "Heart to Heart."  Although she was physically challenged even then, she led a full life. We met in her apartment,  decorated with the special "Kathleen" touch (the girl has style), we shared a cup of tea, talking nonstop.  At once it was apparent we were kindred spirits.

We did what kindred spirits do! We bowed our heads to give ourselves to God and to "Heart to Heart."

And after lives of bumps and grinds, jubilation, hope, faith and prayer, wonderment and wondering,
we know the gift of heart to heart.

Truly and very truly, we can say  thank you! and"Amen."

PATIENCE

I am not sure if I want to pray for patience or not.

Most of us who pray know full well that if you pray for patience, you will have to enter the "Patience  is Required" Room.

Two aisles are evident as you enter this room, one that veers to the right, the other, to the left.

Hmm, which one to choose?

Some clues are evident.  The aisle to the left is cluttered with broken articles, chips of pottery, disjointed computer components, a rusted carburetor.  Farther down the aisle lie scattered pages of paper.  Strewn alongside are unfinished paintings, and violins with sprung strings.

Broken dreams perhaps?

The right aisle beckons.  The shards of pottery are fewer, there are still pages of paper, but they are stacked neatly and they are filled with words and musical notations.  Paintings propped on their easels have dried, magnificent in brilliant color, architectural drawings are rolled in perfect scrolls.
And at the end of the aisle, a newly-refurbished car stands clean and gleaming.

You, dear reader, know where I am going with this.

Impatience destroys.  It demands selfishly "My Way!" "My Time!"  It leaves behind unfinished business.

I almost fell victim to the unfinished business of impatience this very morning. Coffee in hand, I strove into my office with purpose and resolve.  I excitedly sat down to hammer out nuggets of wisdom. 

Alas, a battle ensued with Microsoft Windows 10. " My Way! My Time! " I cried.  "Nope!" sneered Windows 10.  "Not today!"  So I grappled, I tangled, I commanded, but to no avail. I muttered unwholesome words, and stormed out of my office, announcing to my dog, who was laying on the hearth in a dead sleep, "I AM THROWING THIS COMPUTER OUT!  I am not writing one word on this thing today!

Deep in the recesses of my technological angst a still small voice whispered, "But there are words today for you to write."

I took a deep breath, prayed "Help", and walked slowly back into my office. No nuggets of wisdom remained, nay, no excitement.

Ah, but a new resolve rose up inside of me. As I looked around, I realized I had entered the "Patience is Required Room." Had I taken the aisle to the right where patience has its say, where perseverance fuels active resolve?  I heaved a long sigh, wrote my piece and asked the One Who Knows how to navigate the technological challenge my new Windows 10 application posed.  Turns out in my resolve, I learned something new. (What a concept).

Mind you, the prose is not the beginning of the next great American novel.  But I won a battle with impatience.  I walked down the aisle to the right, and placed my page of words on the tall, neat stack in the "Patience is Required" Room.

For today, I ran the race, and patience won.  For today, that was enough.