I’m impatient.  I wait for little, and even then I do it grudgingly.  I’ve tried to overcome it, especially over the last year and a half.  It’s hard to not be patient and still be a good parent to a young child, so I’ve had to learn to separate my time as Dad from my time as Mike.  I’ve done a good job, I’d say. but I have still have far to go.  Outside of being a parent, though, I’ve repeatedly failed in all attempts to develop some semblance of patience.

As I left work Monday, I sat in line behind someone waiting to pull out of the parking garage who was undoubtedly related to Job.  This person waited not for a large enough opening in traffic, but for a chasm.  As cars crept past, I kept thinking to myself how many times I could have pulled out.  Finally this person pulled away, and it was my turn.

I waited as two or three more cars drove past, and then pulled out quickly — only to be stopped immediately by a traffic light that was already yellow.  I growled audibly at my luck — Captain Waitforit cleared the light — as I pressed the brakes firmly, and the top page of a stack of papers Her Cuteness received in Sunday School the day before slid off the passenger seat, landing in an orientation that made it incredibly simple for me to read its message, in huge, block lettering.

“God helps me to be patient.”