“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.” (James 1:4)
There is a very specific moment in pancake making when wisdom and impatience part company. The pancake has been in the pan for what feels like a perfectly respectable amount of time. The glossy batter around the outer rim loses its shine and begins to turn opaque. A thin, pale ring forms along the perimeter, curling upward ever so slightly as the batter begins to set against the hot surface of the pan. Small, lazy bubbles swell near the edges, hinting at the golden browning happening underneath. Everything within you says, It’s finally ready.
But alas, the truth of the matter is, it is not ready.
Unfortunately, pancakes inspire a confidence completely unsupported by evidence. So you slide the spatula underneath and immediately receive the kind of information someone with a growling stomach does not want: the center is still uncooked.
At this point, a reasonable person would withdraw the spatula and give the poor thing another minute. But apparently, once the flipping process has begun, pride kicks in and decides to become thoroughly involved.
So you commit.
The illusion of a perfectly solid circle immediately shatters. Instead of lifting neatly from the pan, half the pancake comes up while the other half apparently has signed a long-term lease. The part on your spatula droops over both sides, a wet section folds underneath itself, another piece tears off entirely, and somehow there is now pancake batter on the stovetop even though you are quite certain the pancake never technically left the skillet.
This is the point where breakfast becomes archaeology.
You begin excavating pieces. You scrape up one section and try to attach it to another. You pat things down with the spatula as though the pancake might appreciate your encouragement. You flip fragments individually. Before long, you’re no longer making a pancake; you’re gathering evidence that one once existed.
And the ridiculous part is that one more minute probably would have prevented the entire disaster.
Although you cannot see me, I am laughing because I recognize the technique. I have used it often enough to consider myself something of an expert. Unfortunately, my tendency to interfere with things that are not quite ready does not confine itself to the kitchen.
Apparently, I own a spiritual spatula too.
I can pray about something, place it in God’s hands, tell Him sincerely that I trust Him, and then almost immediately begin checking for bubbles. Before long, I am sighing, Surely something should be happening by now. Surely I should see some movement, some indication, some little browned edge telling me things are progressing. And when I don’t, there is that familiar temptation to start poking around underneath things to see whether God might need a little assistance.
James says, “But let patience have her perfect work.” I find that little word “let” rather convicting. Patience isn’t merely what happens while nothing else is happening. Patience itself has a work to accomplish, and sometimes my interference disrupts the very work I have been asking God to do.
Think about that pancake. While it appears to be just sitting there, heat is moving through it. Batter is becoming structure. What could not possibly hold together a moment ago is quietly becoming firm enough to be turned. The fact that I cannot see most of that process does not mean nothing is happening.
There are seasons when God’s work can feel much the same. I am looking for something to change around me while He may be changing something within me. Faith is being strengthened. Motives are being purified. Dependence upon Him is deepening. I may be asking Him to hurry the circumstances along while He knows I am not yet ready for what comes after the flip.
Perhaps that is part of what it means to let patience have her “perfect work.” God isn’t simply asking me to tolerate the waiting. There may actually be something that requires the waiting—something He is developing, arranging, strengthening, or preparing that would not hold together properly if I forced it before its time.
So the next time you pray, surrender something to God, and then feel that familiar urge to poke at it, pry at it, turn it over, check underneath it, and generally assist the Almighty with His responsibilities, think about a pancake.
Some things really do fall apart simply because we refuse to give them time to finish.
And once you’ve spent ten minutes scraping breakfast off a skillet you never planned to clean quite that thoroughly, arranging pancake fragments on a plate, and convincing yourself that technically they taste exactly the same as the beautiful round pancake you intended to make, you may finally appreciate the wisdom of waiting just a little bit longer.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is leave the spatula alone.
If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.
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