Patience is not my best thing. It’s not even on the list. I always thought of that as a good thing; it means I get things done. If there’s a problem, I jump in and try to solve it. I’m pro-active, I say. And good at taking care of things. But somewhere in the mix of how to handle problems, well….impatience has turned out to be a problem.

My computer fix-it person, who calls herself “The Granny Geek,” noticed right away that I have a little issue with patience (or lack thereof). She was trying to show me how to do something, but it was going so slowly (I thought) that I kept repeating the command. She finally sent me out of the room so the computer could do its job! Fortunately, she has a sense of humor, and we both know, now, that if I’m frustrated, I’ll just keep plowing ahead, expecting better results, which just confuses the situation even more.

Grief, it turns out, is yet another lesson in patience. The process isn’t something I can speed through; I can’t just check things off the “grief list” and decide it’s over.

I’m still learning that I have to treat grief, and myself, like a stumbling, tattered, ultra-sensitive being who needs gentleness and kindness and….patience.

Grief is frustrating, and sneaky. It drops us at the gate of Mystery, drags us through questions we thought we didn’t need to ask: “What does it mean to be here? What does commitment mean, if it can be fractured by loss? How do we ever learn this impossible thing – how to love, and trust, when we know everything will be broken in the end, no matter how good or faithful or caring we are? And how do we recover? How do we let go? And why would we want to?”

And all these questions don’t just flit around in our minds. Loss happens in and to our bodies – our cells grieve, our organs and bones and skin mourn. Grief breaks us open – body, mind, heart, spirit.

But with patience, and in time, grief does unfold itself, reshape itself. It lodges in our tissues and thoughts and in the way we see the world, and reshapes us as well. Eventually, we can bear what we can’t understand. We become a secret chamber of sad knowledge. We become one of the wise ones (often, despite ourselves) who know how precious every small thing, every person, every opportunity for connection and compassion, is. We are broken, bowed down, and offered up. We can, in tiny ways, become a doorway for some other suffering soul, some other person lost on the way through grief, with patience as our guide.

I’m still rotten at computer work; I still expect things to get done the way I’m sure they can. But I’m learning, one stumbling step at a time, to wait, and to keep going, and to trust that I will make it through, though not necessarily in the same shape as I was before grief took hold.

The following is an excerpt from the article “In Praise of Patience” by Samira Thomas (see full article online) that speaks to the role of patience in the grief journey:

“Patience recognizes suffering in the difficulties of one’s life and that of another. Nowadays, it might conjure up ideas of complacence but, with a long view of time…….patience becomes a way of bearing sorrows. Unlike resilience, which implies returning to an original shape, patience suggests change and allows the possibility of transformation as a means of overcoming difficulties. It is a simultaneous act of defiance and tenderness, a complex existence that gently breaks barriers. In patience, a person exists at the edge of becoming. With an abundance of time, people are allowed space to be undefined, neither bending nor broken, but instead, transfigured.”

I wasn’t counting on being transfigured by grief. But it might be okay. I know I’ve been worn down, slowed down. I know my heart has been broken open. And as painful as this has been, and as mad as I still am, I am also blessed.