Church let out sometime after noon. That was normal, of course–and so, like every Sunday, the closing prayer was punctuated by my growling stomach.

Lunch. I needed lunch.

I turned to my friend Alli, the bestselling author (who is coming out with a new book very soon).

“You hungry?” I asked. That was a stupid question. Alli never says no to food. I corrected myself– “You want the Forum?” I asked. I knew she’d been wanting to try the fries there.

“The Forum!” Alli confirmed. “I’ll see who else wants to go!”

I waited while she talked to everybody in the congregation about forming the largest lunch party known to man. Checked my watch. 12:30 ish. I could wait. Patience, patience…

Alli convinced two of our friends to meet us at the restaurant, and two more said they’d stop by in an hour or so.

I drove. Not a lot of traffic in Cambridge Ohio on a Sunday morning–not when you’re leaving after the lunch rush. I figured I could thank my pastor for always preaching long. No lines when you get out of church 12:30, right?

We rolled up to the restaurant around 12:45-ish. Got a table within five minutes of stepping in. We sat at this big round table in the center of the room. The air rattled with the clattering of silverware and chattering of families. My nose was filled with a buffet of scents–fries, sizzling bacon, pickles, toasted bread. My stomach rumbled, like it was rubbing its proverbial hands together.

The waitress took our drink order. Dropped off a basket of breadsticks, which were annihilated in the first ten or so minutes. We chatted. Laughed. Typical friend stuff. But after about a half an hour, our waitress hadn’t come back for us.

I looked around the dining room. From where I was seated on the curved, round-table booth, I had a pretty good view of the back dining room. In fact, the door to the kitchen was directly across from me, about two tables in between us. In between bites of breadstick, I’d watch the door swing in and out like this were a wild-west saloon.

And there she was. The server. She pushed through the door, hands empty except for her waitress pad. She walked closer. Closer.

Passed right by. Didn’t even give us a sparing glance, like we were strangers. Had our time together meant so little? Is love so fleeting?

My stomach sighed. I nibbled more of the breadstick.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Patience. Patience. Patience. Maybe they were busy. Right? I mean, it didn’t seem busy, but you never know.

Eventually, once we were reaching towards an hour of abandonment, one of our friends brought up the obvious but unavoidable: “I think someone needs to say something.”

I looked at Alli. She looked at me.

“I can wait,” said Alli. “I’m sure they’ll get to us.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “I don’t want to bother anyone.” Patience, remember? Patience.

But no. It’d been about an hour and we were hungry, and it was almost 2pm and the breadsticks were gone. Our friend was right–someone needed to say something. Thankfully, he volunteered to be the “someone.” He stationed himself by the door, like a very polite and respectful bouncer, and waited for the waitress to come back out.

She did. He managed to stop her. I watched them talk. Lots of nodding, and hands waving like “it’s not you, it’s me.” She went back in the kitchen, and he came and sat back down.

“She’ll be right with us,” he assured us.

And she was. Good! Patience pays off, you know. She came bearing another basket of breadsticks, which isn’t the worst compensation one can get. She took our order. And then came more waiting. This time, though, it wasn’t so bad. And the food did come, and clearly the long hours of waiting had enriched it with new flavor. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.

Alli and I walked back to the car, leftover boxes in hand. I clicked my keys twice–which is supposed to open all four car doors, but I didn’t click it fast enough, so it only unlocked mine. I slid into the driver’s seat. Put my leftovers in the back. It’s quiet in the car except for a cha-chunk…cha-chunk.

It’s Alli. She’s tugging on the door.

I raise a finger and tap the “unlock all doors” button lodged into my car door–click. Alli, not waiting long enough, tugs the door–cha-chunk–and the door re-locks–click. I press the unlock button–click. Alli tugs the door–cha-chunk. The door re-locks–click. I unlock, click. Alli tugs, cha-chunk. Door re-locks, click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

She’s not even looking at me. Soon enough, there’s not even a pause between the tugs. She’s putting her whole weight into it, tugging again and again and again like the door handle is a chainsaw ripcord. Cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk.

And I just keep staring at her through the passenger side window, watching her yank the handle while she stares off into space.

She’ll realize, I thought, right? She’ll realize and she’ll pause. She has to notice–how can she not notice?

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

Click. Cha-chunk. Click.

I can safely say that rage bubbled up in my chest. Also something like panic and bewilderment. I leaned forward, trying to catch Alli’s eye in the passenger window. I’d stopped hitting the unlock button, but there she was–still tugging, and tugging, and tugging, not a care in the world and not a single ounce of present-ness in her eyes.

I waved my arms at her, like a tourist hopelessly waving down a cab.

ALLI, I mouthed. ALLLLIIIII.

Her eyes–calm, in the clouds–caught mine, wide and full of rage.

ALLI, I mouthed. STOP. JUST. STOP.

I kept my hands raised, as if she had a gun to my head. Her mouth pulled into a line, lips folding into each other. She waited.

I gripped tightly onto the wheel with my right hand. Slowly, I reached over to my door with my left hand. Pressed the unlock door button.

Click.

I glared at Alli and gave an overdramatic nod.

Silently, Alli drew open the door and slid into her seat. She gingerly pulled it closed behind her. She stared at me with those stupidly blue eyes.

Silence descended on the car.

…

…

We burst into laughter. I collapsed my head against the top of the wheel. I couldn’t stop laughing–it hurt, actually, it hurt my ribs and lungs and my throat and I couldn’t even breath. Tears streamed down my face. We laughed for a few minutes, I swear. I tried to start the car, but I couldn’t see through the tears.

So we waited, and we laughed.

Patience, patience, patience.

Patience doesn’t just mean waiting. It’s an attitude. We waited for the waitress, but we knew we couldn’t wait forever. So when the time came to take action, we approached it with a place of calm–not accusatory, not pissed-off, not demeaning, no matter who’s “fault” it was. That was patience, albeit we took a little too long to ask “what’s up.”

I waited for Alli to realize that she was driving me insane. I waited, but that wasn’t patience. Trying to “wait-out” a situation that’s born of a miscommunication isn’t patience. It’s a fight waiting to happen.

And then we waited to start the car. That was true patience. We waited for the laugher, the joy, to subside just enough to allow us to get home safely. That kind of patience didn’t have an expectation. We weren’t waiting for something, we were resting in a situation until its time was up. There wasn’t a prize at the end.

I’ve never been more genuinely annoyed at Alli than when she was cha-chunking my door like the handle was supposed to be detachable. I was mad–I was. And I’d never been mad at her before, and I haven’t been mad at her since.

And it’s so funny now–the whole situation is funny now. And it was funny then, too, once we took a second to pause.

Now, when I pass by that restaurant parking lot, I think of that day.

And I think, “Hey, maybe next time I’ll communicate a little better.”

*no bestselling authors were harmed in the making of this blog.

---

Speaking of patience…

I’m going to be taking a break for a few weeks, because of Christmas. That means there won’t be another blog until January.

“Boo!” you say. “Lucy, that’s lame!”

I know, I know, but I’ll be back before you know it!

In the meantime, check out this Christmas-themed short story I wrote..