When Bruce arrived to pick me up for a date, I wasn’t always ready. “Take your time,” he would say and grab a magazine off the coffee table. And when I came out to greet him, he was always smiling—with no snide remarks or cheap shots.
This was years ago now, and Bruce and I have gone our separate ways—but I remember him fondly, especially when I need five extra minutes. Nobody else has ever been so generous about my being late.
Instead, my husband is checking his watch, pacing the floor, or already sitting out in the truck. Which doesn’t mean I don’t believe in punctuality. I’m usually on time and expect the same of others. In fact, I’m often the one who is pacing the floor and checking my watch.
But I don’t especially like myself when I act this way. And I’ve lived long enough to learn that most appointments and events can survive a five-minute delay.
Although I’ve spent my life hurrying and worrying about being punctual, now I wonder if there’s time to loosen up a little. “There IS time,” I can hear Bruce saying, “and you can take it.”
I can also give it.