Monday, April 19, 2021
Margaret Sofio
Patience
When I hear the word “patience” I think of the times I have drifted or dropped into impatience. When I was a young mother and the day at home dragged on too long, or when a small incident would cause me to snap in an unkind way, I lapsed into impatience. I’ve learned over time to breathe more deeply, weigh the reality of these small situations and let them pass with out a mean reaction—most of the time.
But I never have thought much about God’s patience with me. How many times has He seen my thoughtlessness or waywardness and forgiven me, or continued to hold me up, rejoiced in my return to Him.
And I remember the major departure in my life, when I left religion, and God behind.
I had always found a huge solace in my Catholic faith, adhering closely to every rule and stricture—celebrating all the Holy days, no meat on Friday, regular prayer.
And then came my divorce. For three Sundays I continued to faithfully attend Mass. And each Sunday I could only sit there with tears streaming down my face, embarrassed, but unable to stop.
After the third Sunday I decided my behavior was too mortifying and I could not continue going to church and cry. So I stopped—going to church, that is. It was abrupt and surprising even to me. God had seemed to retreat, or perhaps not even exist! A number of years passed and my life improved. I was successful at work, had many friends. My three kids were growing up and, with a few bumps along the way, were doing well. Ten years later a friend introduced me to a very tall man, who nevertheless seemed very gentle. His name was Jim Zuckerman and he was an OB/GYN doctor. He would call me every time he delivered a baby to tell me he had “just delivered the most beautiful little baby girl (or boy).”
When he visited me in Portsmouth, on Sunday he would go to St. John’s, having grown up in the Episcopal Church. But I never went with him. We moved to Denver together and he would go to Church and I would stay home and read the fat Sunday papers. Once or twice I joined him, but was never moved to make it my own practice.
After several years we moved back to Portsmouth and Jim began to attend St. John’s regularly. I stayed home. But I noticed a sandwich board outside the church on Thursdays inviting people to come in for a warm meal. All were welcome. I called the Church, asked about volunteering and was referred to Judy Roberts, who welcomed me.
God’s infinite patience was paying off. I began working regularly with the wonderful group of Common Table volunteers, many of whom were St. John’s parishioners. I loved working with all of them and then serving our guests, finding time to sit with them and hear their stories as I brought cups of coffee and glasses of milk to them.
After several months of volunteering at Common Table and hearing snatches of conversation about St. John’s, I told my faithful partner Jim that I wanted to come with him to a service. At the very first Sunday, I felt at home, a slightly different home than I had had before, but one where God’s patience welcomed me.