Patience
I’m traveling today to a place I like to go to. Might as well be a home town. My brain is already there, eating olives and drinking cider. It’s cold enough now that I can also partake in one of the Sherlock-inspired, barrel-aged porters or stouts I like from a place. I’m temperamental about what kinds of beers ought to be enjoyed at which times of year. The ground ought to be crunchy with frost, the air biting and blustery, the light glaring before leggy dark beers are allowed. When I am patient and wait for the right time, I’m rewarded with a perfect balance of the senses, a kind of warmth suitable for the cold.
This weekend, church folks of a kind will all wear pink instead of the blue or purple of Advent. This is to connote joy, the theme of the week, the time in pregnancy where the anxiety of anticipation channels itself into a hopeful, celebratory welcome. Or at least the idea of welcome. The Third Sunday of Advent is about a hint of impatience in a patient season.
I’ll be attending the ordination of a longtime friend to the Priesthood in the Episcopal church. He and I, in years long past, worked on a production of Shakespeare’s The Tempest with young people one summer. Ferdinand, the shipwrecked prince of that play, ferries logs from one pile to another in service to Prospero, a magician or wizard who runs the island and whose daughter, Miranda, Ferdinand has met and taken a fancy to.
I am in my condition
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;
I would, not so!—and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log—man.
Ferdinand so loves Miranda that, despite undertaking perhaps the first hard labor of his life, he relishes the opportunity so that he may be in service to Miranda as her “patient log-man.” Log-man is not poetic language, Shakespeare. It’s clumsy, maybe, or Anglo-Saxon instead of something florid and Latinate like that word “patience” that comes from the Latin patiens, whose root is pati, which means to suffer, among other things. Patience is long-suffering. I should note that Ferdinand, while earnestly inclined here, does not have to suffer long: most of the play’s action takes place over the span of an afternoon. But it’s the heart that counts, I think.
Patience is about not knowing what’s coming and going ahead anyway.
I woke up this morning with thing song on my mind this morning that I think captures the idea of patience.
Life is better off a mystery.
Meditation
Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and allow yourself to be transported to a place of patience. Imagine yourself in a cold, frosty environment, savoring a dark beer, embracing the biting air, and the crunch of frost underfoot. Reflect on the essence of patience - the willingness to endure, the acceptance of the unknown, and the joy found in life's mysteries. In this meditation, let us celebrate patience, not as a passive waiting but as an active engagement with the beauty of life's unfolding story.
Examen
Recall a moment when patience led you to a deeper understanding or appreciation of a situation. How did this experience shape your perspective?
Consider the theme of the Third Sunday of Advent - joy in anticipation. How does the idea of 'patient log-man' resonate with your personal experiences of patient service or love?
As you reflect on the concept of life being better off as a mystery, how does embracing uncertainty and patience enhance your journey through life?
Patience is more than just waiting; it's a celebration of the unknown, a surrender to the mystery of life. Let our reflections inspire us to savor each moment, to find beauty in the unknown, and to embrace the mystery that makes life so profoundly beautiful and enriching.