As I look over my paper journal for the second week of Lent, there’s an unplanned overarching theme: Patience.
“O Lord my God, be patient, as you always are, with the men of this world as you watch them and see how strictly they obey the rules of grammar which have been handed down to them, and yet ignore the eternal rules of everlasting salvation which they have received from you.” —St. Augustine
Following Mass, after I’d spent an hour in the pew crying over every word uttered, the priest offered me a gentle reminder: Spend some quiet time with God. At that moment, it occured to me… I hadn’t. I’d been studying. I’d been reading everything. But I’d spent little time in prayer. I’d been so wrapped up in “doing good” for Him, that I’d neglected to talk to Him. On the drive home, in the monotony of a mostly-empty highway, I remained quiet. Little by little, my mind was purged of the crushing weight of concerns; I thought not of the upcoming week or all the things I had to do. Finally, I allowed Him room to enter in again. Finally, we had our quiet time.
As a result, over the week, He spoke to me.
The next morning, a verse immediately came to mind: Ezekiel 3:22. It hovered there, taunting me. I couldn’t remember a thing from Ezekiel; he had nothing to do with anything I’d been reading recently. So I looked it up.
“And the hand of the Lord was there upon me; and he said to me, “Arise, go forth into the plain, and there I will speak with you.”
Easy enough: Arise, go forth. Wait for Him to speak.
Actually, it’s harder than it sounds.
Listening is tough. Being still enough to listen is an act of meditation, of taking time to let Him speak rather than constantly rambling to Him. At the time, I didn’t understand what this verse had to do with anything. But it was what I had to do: Get up. Go forth. Listen.
During adoration, another ping from God: Jesus, I know that I am a sinner.
We’re not merely talking about the sinner’s prayer, saying the magic words that get you into Heaven. I’d heard the phrase so many times at so many invitations, but this wasn’t just that blanket statement. This was every sin I’d ever committed. Every prideful, wrathful, lustful thought and deed; every moment I’d denied Him or failed to stand for His truth. It was awful. Like I hadn’t cried enough this week already. But in that… His patience.
“Await God’s patience, cling to him and do not depart, that you may be wise in all your ways.” —Sirach 2:3
When Jesus was a child, Mary and Joseph lost him during a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. It was three days before they found him, where he was preaching in the temple among the scholars. Mary was worried sick, but Jesus said simply, “Didn’t you know I’d be in my Father’s house?”
We lose him, too. Mary and Joseph didn’t realize he was missing at first, and I do the same. I go back, search for him, wonder what had happened. And when we finally reconnect, he asks, “Didn’t you know where I’d be?” It’s a glorious reunion every time, the relief at finding him again. He doesn’t reprimand me for wandering off. He is simply patient, reminding me that he’s been there all along. Jesus didn’t lose his parents, after all.
Even in the midst of this journey, with all I’ve been reading and learning, I can still lose sight of him. I can feel lost. But Jesus is in the temple. Jesus is here. He is home. May I have a fragment of His patience. He’s been eternally patient with me, who constantly wanders off and doesn’t bother to listen. The very least I can do is show the same for Him, and for the people I interact with every day.
