My Horse Patience

Patience was easy from the start, at least for me it was. Perhaps being the middle child between two brothers enabled me to relax and allow divine providence. Yes, they tell me I mothered my younger brother Justin, and I remember teaching him how to pretend that Cabbage Patch Kids were real, only dancing in the actual cabbage patch over at Janel's house, while records blared, "It's a Good Ship Lollipop." Remind me to grab some Shirley Temple DVDs from the library, we'll go on Thursday.

I had 5 Cabbage Patch kids, my dad got the discount at Osco Drug in Fox Valley (he's a pharmacist)...and my mom was the queen of making our holidays spectacular. Yes, both looking and seeming. I recall playing with those plastic, yarn-haired dolls, babypowder scented, an artist proud of his work signed their butts. The hands and those bottoms had skin-colored yarn separating the cheeks and the fingers, and the thumb. I studied them closely, obviously an art of the past.

But the essay, the patience, and what it taught me. I didn't like taking time away from my children, I didn't like explaining to my husband that I needed to do one more re-write, though I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime sacrifice so I stayed the course. I was banking on his understanding. "I'm sorry," I kept saying, but it has to be perfect, too much of our hope could be rocketed forth.

Someone wanted to witness whatever happened to those people who won that house, someone wanted to see if they could find more contests like it, or perhaps even throw their own. I'd be Jes MaHarry, I'd learn the metalwork, I'd find the stones...or maybe, it'd be enough to use plain ol' nature. Christopher, an architect of perfection, a man who's forced to use both sides of his brain due to the curse of left-handedness, plus the son of a really great father. We've been dreaming ever since we began.

The limit, 25o words walked the line...248, oops I can fit two more, 251...oh no, which one can go. Which one must go? It was exhilarating to fine tune my sentences. I didn't care if they made sense to nobody but me, each word represented my visions, MY building of a life starting tomorrow, no today, house or no house it would be well-lived.

If I never wrote again I didn't care...I could see myself in that house and what it would mean (all those taxes would be my husband's burden, didn't cross my mind). It meant I would do my best to live out what I had written. And the integrity I'd discovered, the truth that resonated more loudly than any silly contest, that sacrificing was never worth it, just live in the moment. If you want it bad enough, than God will find the way.