You’re Late
My father hates to be late. Always has, and I suspect always will. To him, punctuality was not only in between cleanliness and Godliness, it was a requirement if one were to have any hope of salvation. The gates of heaven would be closed and locked right at the moment when eternity begins, and if you’re a millisecond late: well, it’s wailing and gnashing of teeth for you.
Like so many children of compulsive parents, I inherited a split personality when it comes to punctuality: I have a tendency to run late (a passive aggressive way of rebelling against dad, to be sure) but I share my father’s contempt for it. Not so much for other people (although sometimes my wife gets in the firing line), but mostly I just get angry at myself over my tardiness.
So this morning I wanted to go to Mass. Mass at the monastery starts at 7 AM, and it’s a 35 minute drive from my house. You can do the math: I need to be out of the house by 6:25, and if I’m that late getting started, it leaves me no time to really get centered and find my inner quiet before the monks begin chanting.
It’s a new school year, and Rhiannon has a new CNA (certified nursing assistant) to come help her get out of bed in the morning before the bus arrives (Rhiannon is a stroke survivor with hemiplegic paralysis). WIth the CNA helping Rhiannon get up, Fran and I can take care of ourselves (which is what most people with a 21-year-old get to do in the morning); but if the CNA doesn’t come for whatever reason, it’s up to us to get Rhiannon ready to meet her bus at 7:40. The CNA is supposed to arrive at 6:15.
This morning she was late. It’s only her third day on the job, and she was late yesterday too. We are anxious that this won’t work out; perhaps she’s unreliable, or has unreliable transportation, or is simply one of those people who’s always late. But the bus is hardly ever late, so Rhiannon needs an assistant who’s on time.
If the CNA doesn’t show up, I can’t leave for work until after I assist Fran in helping Rhiannon get out of bed and get ready for school. Thankfully, I don’t have to be at work until 9 AM, so I have plenty of wiggle room. But it’s nice to be able to go to Mass; Fran supports me going to Mass (she knows how much I need it!), so when the CNA is late, it puts me in a bind. I can’t just toodle on off to Mass: what if the CNA turns out not to show up at all?
The minutes ticked on by. Finally at about 6:30 she called, apologizing for being late but assuring Fran she was on her way. Fran shooed me out the door. "Go on to Mass," she said. "Are you sure?" I replied, knowing how much work she would have to do if she had to get Rhiannon up by herself. "Don’t worry, I don’t want you to be late for Mass."
But I was already late. I got in my car and the clock said 6:34. Even if traffic were favorable, I’d be ten minutes late. My father’s voice echoed in my mind, "I’d rather miss a meeting altogether than show up late." But no, I wasn’t going to give in to his compulsions. Better late than never, I said to myself, as I dashed down I-20, hoping no state troopers were out trolling for speeders.
The last five miles to the monastery are all rural roads, and of course, I got caught behind a truck toodling along at about 30 mph in a 45 mph zone. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. A continual stream of morning commuters driving into Atlanta going the opposite direction made passing impossible. I tried to remember to keep breathing, and not to tailgate too closely!
Finally I drove into the monastery grounds. Practically ignoring the serene beauty of the trees and the meadows, I strode as quickly as my legs would permit the walk to the church. I got inside and found my seat just as the monks were finishing the Psalms. A deep breath, practically a sigh, and I flipped through the looseleaf-notebook breviary to find my place.
The Abbey Church is a splendid building, a 2oth century neo-gothic structure with simple concrete arches and radiant stained glass. Several fans were blowing to cool off the un-air-conditioned expanse. The chanting soothed me, and for a moment I forgot how much I had been mentally flagellating myself for being a mere ten minutes late. In fact, listening to the gentle rhythms of the monk’s voices, I realized that everything really was okay. Sure, I was late, but as soon as I got there, it didn’t matter any more.
Then came the morning Gospel reading: Matthew 20:1-16. The parable of the landowner who hired a series of workers, some of whom worked all day, others half a day, others only an hour. At the end of the day everyone got paid a full day’s wage — even those who were (gasp) late getting started.
I broke out into an unguarded smile. It was as if God were having a little goodnatured laugh at my expense. I was reminded: yes, it’s a good thing to be on time. But lateness happens. It’s not the end of the world. And God is much more forgiving of such human foibles than we tend to be ourselves. Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in there somewhere…
Who knows? Maybe I’ll even dare to be a little late for eternity. After all, all shall be well as soon as I (eventually) get there.
