Maybe it is catching.

We talked about patience at my community group this week. The topic came up with the story of Noah. We’ve been reading through the book of Genesis, and we hit chapter 8. In the biblical account of the flood, the rains ended after 40 days, but Noah and his family didn’t open the doors for almost a year. The water receded, the ark had landed, and he just waited until God told him it was time to step out into the empty world.

Patience. Noah must have had some of it in that boat with the animals and family members. Patience is also identified as a fruit of the Holy Spirit. It’s a virtue—the evidence of something greater than my own humanity.

I thought I was a patient person. I’ve always tried to give the people around me a reasonable amount of time—even a graceful amount of time—to act/do/respond as they should. This is patience, or so I thought.

It occurred to me during this study that maybe my definition of patience isn’t very virtuous after all. After someone takes longer than my mental permit allows, then I begin feeling impatient, irritated or annoyed. So my patience really doesn’t require any adjustment of my attitude or expectations. I equate being reasonably-gracious to being patient.

Perhaps patience is better understood in the KJV translation as long-suffering. The word implies discomfort instead of grace. Am I willing to be made uncomfortable—to stay on the ark when the ground looks dry—in order to demonstrate the love of Christ to those around me? Not often enough.

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This is becoming something of a phenomenon in my family.

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And my weekend starts in 3... 2... 1...