Leo Tolstoy wrote, “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.”
I find it interesting that Tolstoy’s quote couples two words from different worlds: one we can control and one we cannot. Even more thought-provoking is the realization that we live in both worlds.
My great-grandmother lived on a farm in East Texas where the pond was stocked, the fields were plump with cotton, and the barn was full of hay.
When my big brother and I would visit during the summertime, our great-grandmother would make homemade shakes and donuts. After filling our bellies, she would tell us to go outside and play. I didn’t mind leaving the house because my brother told me her house was haunted. As a young girl, I believed him, especially when the wooden flooring would squeak underneath the round-roped rug when I walked through the living room.
Bolting out of Grandma’s house, the only sound we left behind was the screen door slamming shut behind us.
Before us was a world already awake under a hot afternoon sun.
Turtles shuffled from weeds to water, bugs alighted on our t-shirts as if they were stickers, and grasshoppers jumped before our steps like dolphins swimming in the wake of a boat. We ran to the horseshoe pit, my brother challenging me to a game I already knew he would win.
Picking up a horseshoe, I let out a yelp, dropping it back into the grass. The sun had baked it too hot to hold. My brother would have to wait to gloat until early evening when the horseshoes had time to cool.
Childhood… a combination of patience and time.
The visits to my great-grandmother’s place dwindled once I became active in sports, church, school, and friendships. Not until her funeral did I soak in the vastness of her life.
Looking at pictures of her lined up on the reception table, I was struck by the youthful gleam in her eyes framed in black and white.
Walking down the line, the pictures eventually turned to color. I never knew her before her hair was anything but white.
I felt my cheeks flush, embarrassed. It was as if I was witnessing a quilt stitch itself from the first patch to the final knot, and in my small-minded thinking, I had not realized all she had been and who she was to so many.
I only knew a patch of her. That day, I grew up a bit, realizing that the time she shared with us was special and that she clearly had made a special impact on others. I wish I had realized that sooner, but I was moving too fast, and so was time.
Growing up… a combination of patience and time.
As an adult, I now sit looking out my window as remnants of summer descend into fall. From my second-story view, I see my neighbor’s old iron fence, reminding me of the one that outlined the front of my great-grandmother’s homestead. They also have a screen door I often hear slamming shut as children go to and from. The mother frequently looks tired.
Give it time, I want to tell her. Give it time. Soon enough, you will miss the sound of the screen door slamming.
Parenting… a combination of patience and time.
Getting dressed for work, I cannot help but notice two canes leaning against the back corner of my closet. The first is a wooden cane I used for several months before I had back surgery; the other is a white cane, which I occasionally use when I need extra assistance in crowds or at night. I no longer need the wooden cane because I had the patience and took the required time to heal.
The white cane, I will need more as time moves on, and I pray to have the patience, courage, and grace to handle the changes and challenges that time brings with age and degenerative ailments.
Growing older… a combination of patience and time.
Tolstoy was on to something: patience and time are mighty warriors. The key is to position these warriors on the same side, especially living in a world that rushes children to grow up and frowns upon frown lines.
There are moments when time teaches us how things can change instantly: a death or diagnosis, a proposal or promotion, an unexpected blessing or blindside.
And then there are moments in which time teaches us the full breadth of a minute, a day, or a year: watching someone you love struggle, listening to a baby laugh, trying to get in better shape, or listening to a song that summons your mind and awakens your heart to someone you miss.
Patience is cultivated in the field of experience.
There is a saying by Elisabeth Elliot that goes, “Don’t dig up in doubt what you planted in faith.” It takes patience to follow the hands of time, especially when you are not privy in advance to the outcome.
Sometimes, the right choice is to focus on the best thing you can do in the present moment, trusting God to take care of the rest. And if the best thing for you now is to rest, then rest. If it is to breathe, then breathe. If it is to hug someone or say you’re sorry, then do it!
Be here. Now. Worry, doubts, and complaints only weaken your effectiveness.
Patience boils down to believing that God knows exactly what time it is, that His plans for you will be done in His time, and that He is always on time.
In this knowing, we realize we live in a world where God is ultimately in control. Our responsibility is to be obedient to Him. May this truth enable us to live in the moment with faith-filled endurance, grace, and grit.
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.