Be careful for what you wish for.  I asked God to help me become more patient, and also better at praying for other people.

In a related story, cue the Jackass Parade.

I was talking to AW last night about this funny way God has of taking care of us, specifically this thing he does where he answers our prayers according to his own interpretation of timing, our needs, etc.  In other words, his perfect way that is based on his knowing everything in response to our requests based on knowing…well, very little, if not comparably nothing, of a given situation.

Whenever I need reminding of how little I know, God is always ready to lovingly show me.  Right now, I’m dealing with multiple patience-challenging activities. Planning a wedding, which has nuances I ever imagined, when all I want to do is wear a dress and say “I do” and have a party.  Getting a dental license, when after all is said and done, I’d really rather just be sitting by the pool reading and writing instead of depending on an administrative staff with the helpfulness of a slug to file my paperwork in time (my time, that is).  Building a life, when there are multiple forces out there, visible and invisible, sane and not so much, who would just as soon destroy that effort for their own ends.

And it’s not just the rough edges of others that I have to contend with…no, the longer I live and the more I try to convince myself I have Got It All Together, the more opportunities I get to laugh at myself (after a colorful language explosion, of course).  Last week I walked out to the grocery store parking lot and pressed my keyless entry button.  Once I got to the car, I pulled at the handle.  No response.  I pushed the button and pulled the door again.  Nothing.  Push, pull, push, pull (sounds a lot like life), both actions growing angrier and more frenetic by the second, until a cloud passed overhead and I could see more clearly (sounds a lot like life) and I realized that the car in front of me was not, in fact, mine.  I nonchalantly turned on my heel and swept the parking lot with my eyes for witnesses.  Then yesterday at the empty gym in our building, I climbed onto a machine and lowered the leg stabilizer a little too much.  To the point that it was stuck with my legs underneath it.  I pushed and nothing happened.  I pulled and nothing happened.  A routine getting older by the day.  I panicked and cussed and sweated and grunted as I imagined myself getting married while attached to a thighmaster. After much struggle and a nice friction burn, I was released from my prison.  This time, I actually laughed at myself and admitted the story later to the BF.  Score one point for self-growth!

One thing that struck me during my conversation with AW, which I said out loud (always convicting), was how repetitive it must be to God when we freak out about everything that deviates from our plan, sure that something is wrong, and just how offensive our panic must be to the one who constantly proves himself capable of our care.  And yet he never cusses or grunts or writes us off.  nd now, daily, as I am faced with my own shortcomings and my perceptions of others’ acts of injustice (in a related story, I’m not so good with empathy), I can only marvel that he puts up with us at all.  Especially me.  (But also, others.  I mean, seriously?  It takes you ten days to file one paper?  And you over there:  MOVE THE EFF ON AND ACCESS YOUR UNCRAZY SIDE.)

At the end of the day, I’m convinced that having someone to share our story with is key, and who better than its author?  One who, I’m finding out, is just as good at writing comedy as anything else, and it would serve me well to let go and learn how to laugh.  Because let’s face it, I am not going to get any less goofy and others are not going to stop refusing to meet my expectations. Although one in particular seems particularly adept at handling me…this guy who listens to my car and gym debacles and supports me fully–then laughs in a way that I have to join in too.