You’re Late—But You’re Here

That’s what the woman said to us, during the passing of the peace time at church.

We were visiting the church—not our usual Sunday morning haunt—and got the start time confused. We tiptoed in when everyone was standing up singing, when no one—we hoped—would notice our tardiness.

But when it came time to “welcome” each other—the obligatory time in the service when we shake hands and say things like, “Good morning,” or “peace be with you!” the woman seated next to us leaned over to us and hissed, “You’re late—but you’re here.”

We blinked. I heard my husband’s sharp intake of breath before he exhaled and responded, “Well, yes. We are here.”

Sometimes we don’t get the welcome that we want. We want the open armed, face-beaming-all-over, bear hug kind of welcome. Sometimes we feel like we get to our own party a little late in life; other things have taken priority or gotten in the way of our original hopes and dreams. But eventually, in our own time, we get there, and we hardly ever get there by the smooth, obstacle-free path we planned on taking.

I felt embarrassed that morning. I didn’t particularly want to be called out for my lateness. I was well aware of it. The woman probably doesn’t even remember this brief exchange, but for me, it’s been the one thing I’ve carried with me from that Sunday morning.

Over time, memory softens things. Her words jabbed sharply that morning; now, I’ve been able to separate her words from the tone in which they were delivered.

I’m not who I said I wanted to be at this time in my life. I haven’t accomplished the things I set out to do. But I’m not done yet. I’m still trying. It’s not too late for me. I don’t have time, nor do I want to waste it, accusing myself of coming up short.

It’s late—but I’m here.