Patience

Patience may be a virtue, but it isn't one of mine.

Saturday I drove to Kokomo, Indiana for a luncheon. The trip was approximately 130 miles one way, and the drive took just under three hours. Almost half of it was along two-lane highways posted at 55 mph and punctuated by small towns with even lower speed limits.

On the way there, my GPS took me a round-about way. Since I was constantly watching for the next turn, I didn't have a chance to get bored.

For the return trip, I looked at the old-fashioned paper map and selected my own route, which was more direct and probably quicker. But it was also quite monotonous as I passed miles and miles of brown fields and an occasional bare tree. I just wanted to reach the expressway so I could get home faster.

That isn't a criticism of rural living. I grew up in a small country town, and I enjoyed those years. But after living in the Chicago area for several decades, I've gotten used to more varied scenery.

And I've forgotten that Midwestern farms have a different type of variety. The straw-colored fields I passed Saturday will turn snow-white in winter, dirt-brown in early spring, and green or golden in late spring and summer. The sleeping fields of November are renewing themselves so they can be productive again next year. Land that never gets a chance to rest soon becomes depleted of the minerals that plants require to thrive. So every season has a role in producing a bountiful harvest. We just can't see the part of the process that happens underground.

Life is like that, too. When I am in the brown areas of my life, I find it hard to picture any yield at all, let alone a bumper crop. Yet it is during those brown times that I am revived. Unfortunately, I don't always realize that until I have a chance to look back.

That's why patience is a virtue.

So Near, Yet So Far

Crystal City, Missouri and Maeystown, Illinois are on opposite sides of the Mississippi River. Although they are only ten miles apart, you have to drive a horseshoe to get from one to the other. That's because there are no bridges in the approximately 60-mile stretch between St. Louis, Missouri, to the north and Chester, Illinois, to the south. So near, yet so far.

My 91-year-old mother was living alone in her own home, driving herself to church and the senior center and the grocery store. Then she had a minor stroke. Minor, but enough to change her unassisted walk into a wheelchair ride and her independence into dependence. It also moved her to an assisted living facility five miles away. Only five miles, but she can't even visit the house on her own. So near, yet so far.

One of my writing friends spent many years in Africa as a missionary. After a recent stint in the U.S., she looked for another opportunity to return to the mission field, and she thought she found it in an African country where she hadn't served before. She spent her own money to travel there, stay in temporary housing, and take lessons to learn the language and the culture. But the sponsorship she had been promised didn't materialize. And since her visa is almost up, she may have to return to the U.S. So near, yet so far.

These days even near isn't close enough. We want here. Now. We've lost the gift of patience. Or at least I have.

And I want it back.

So here's another way to view things.

• If there were a bridge between Maeystown and Crystal City, travelers would miss the beauty they find along the current route.
• Without the loss of her independence, Mama wouldn't have met new people and enriched their lives.
• Some day my friend will look back on this experience and say, "Oh, THAT's why."

So near, yet so far? Maybe.

Or maybe the distance is just right.