I used to think I was patient. Back before I had kids. I'd put up with an annoying or difficult situation and congratulate myself on how patient I was.
Then I had a baby. She was a high needs baby. I like to illustrate this by telling the story of one day when Michael, my husband, was holding her. She was happy and content, for once. After a time, he announced, "I have to go to the bathroom." I looked at him in horror: "Are you sure you can't hold it?" Believe me, I had never asked my husband if he could hold it before, but she was the type of baby that you didn't disturb unless *absolutely* necessary.
One of the many things I learned from Hannah was that I am not patient. Sure, I had dealt with situations in a patient manner before, but the virtue of patience was not a part of me. I had the patience sweatshirt. Like a sweatshirt, I would put on patience when I thought it was necessary, then take it off, fold it carefully, and put it away when I didn't need it any more. The problem with sweatshirts is that they are not an integral part of you. You can't have them one magically in the middle of the night if you suddenly need them when your baby wakes up for the 47th time and is screaming again.
So I came to realize that I am not patient. The patience sweatshirt was only useful to a point, but my major field of study in the first year of attendance at the School of Virtue (at least, my first year with my daughter as the professor) was patience. Or perhaps it was a double major: patience and selflessness.
Now I'm getting better, praise God!, and I can certainly recognize points in my dealings with my second daughter that would have sent me over the edge with the first, but seem not to affect me as strongly this time around. But patience is still not an integral part of me, since I still sometimes grumble and growl and occasionally roar when awakened from a dead sleep to deal with wee ones who are screaming.
So I imagine that I'll continue to take many courses in patience at school. God help me! And of course, He will.
