I have in my hands a letter from Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. It’s addressed to London, Ontario and postmarked on July 16, 1965. The stamp in the left hand corner is a picture of George Washington and cost 5 cents. The envelope is opened on the side and looks as if it were mailed yesterday.

I’m on the side of the road in Grain Valley Missouri, decades and miles away from the sender and receiver. I only saw it because I noticed this yellow butterfly and wanted to take a photo.

Before continuing my run and jogging down the hill, the folded sheet of paper with cursive caught the corner of my eye. Because I am a snoop and have a penchant for hand-written letters, I picked it up. After scanning the cordial updates written to a friend, I read these closing lines, “Patience – is letting your motor idle when you feel like stripping your gears.”

Patience. Huh.

I was going to write to you about something entirely different. I was going to share my enthusiasm about the creation of Love Circles and invite all of you over for a big house warming party. I wanted to prepare a big meal where we could sit around a table of abundance sharing our dreams. I wanted to sit around the warmth of a fire, watching the flames lick the cool night air, illuminating the shadows on our faces as the stars came out, one by one.

I wanted it to be exciting and joyful. I wanted to throw a party to prove that life goes on and I’m moving forward and hey look at me and this cool thing I’m doing and please come be part of it.

Except the house doesn’t have any furniture in it just yet. And I accidentally burned all of the cookies in the oven. And there are stars, oh believe me, they’re there…we just can’t see them yet because it’s raining cats and dogs and no one wants to leave their house.

Patience. A pause between the exhale and the inhale. Space between the words so that the letters all make sense. Time to sit quietly with the potential before sending out the party invitations.

Patience is my LEAST favorite subject. Tell me what to do and I’m on it. Tell me to be still and you’ll hear me groaning with my head in my hands.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” “For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.”

These were my favorite Bible verses growing up. The message of patience has been with me, repeated as frequently as I need to hear it in whatever form I’ll receive it from the time I was a young girl. It hasn’t quite hit home yet.

Sometimes, I picture the Universe like the character Madea, saying something along the lines of, ‘Sit your ass right back down, honey chile! Now where do you think you’re going in such a hurry? My Lordy be. Heaven bless her sweet chile, she be a livin’ fool runnin’ around like a chicken in the yard with her head done chopped off.”

I re-read the letter and groaned. A time traveling message delivering words I’d prefer to ignore. I put my face in my hands. I put the car back in park. I turned my computer off, made some tea and let myself be idle.

There will be a housewarming party. In perfect, Universal timing, the skies will clear. There will be time to put a fresh coat of paint on the walls and daffodils in their vases. I’ll slow down long enough to remember to check the oven before the smoke starts coming out. I’ll remember that this sacred space that I want to invite you into isn’t really mine to show off, anyway. It’s a gift. It’s on loan. It won’t be perfect, it will never be perfect, but it will be ours.

When the timing is right. And not a moment before.