Unwilling to believe in a Higher Power, my first attempt at recovery was a disaster, culminating in a confirmation drunk lasting over a year. Desperate, I returned—finally ready to confront what I’d spent my life rejecting. Ready to listen and take actions contrary to my beliefs, including prayer.

On a seemingly ordinary day in early recovery, a plea for patience marked a turning point.

The routine was familiar—sitting on a bench on my patio, kids still asleep, a dark sky, coffee, and my daily meditation book. As I prayed, the words carried substance, having evolved past rote recitations. I had begun talking to God like a friend.

“Good morning, God. I’m grateful to be sober today. Please help me to be patient, kind, loving, and tolerant. Please put someone in my path that I can help today, and  protect me from me. While we’re on the subject of patience—God, I’ve really been struggling. I’m trying, but I really lost it with my kids yesterday. I don’t want to behave that way. So, if you could help me out a little extra in this area—if you could just give me some more patience, I’d really appreciate it.”

Concluding the prayer, I asked for guidance and direction.

Back inside, I was immersed in breakfast preparation when my youngest son, Christian, entered the kitchen with art supplies and began drawing. Flipping the last pancake, I let him know that we needed to clear the table. Satisfied with his work, he scooped up the pile of markers and exited the kitchen, leaving his masterpiece behind.

Wanting to hurry things along, I approached the table, ready to move what appeared to be a poster of some sort. I glanced down and discovered the word PATIENCE stretched across the paper in giant block letters.

Was this divine intervention or mere coincidence?

I had observed him still sleeping soundly after coming inside from the patio. There was no way he’d heard me. As I stood there, pondering the meaning behind this, my oldest son, Jim—who has severe autism—had woken up and needed my assistance, completely distracting me from the poster. The day started to unfold, so I made a mental note to ask Christian about it later, assuming that it must be directly related to something I’d done.

A couple of hours later, my friend Darlene called. Knowing I was in the middle of a divorce and essentially a newly single mother, she was curious if I needed anything from the store.

“Actually, I do need a few things,” I said.

“I can come over and watch the boys while you run out,” she offered.

At the grocery store—a woman on a mission, list in hand—I zipped and zoomed through the aisles, trying to hurry home and relieve Darlene. Having grabbed the last item, I headed for the check-out lane. Swiftly loading the groceries onto the belt, I beelined for the card reader, debit card drawn before the last three items were even scanned, doing whatever I could to make the transaction move faster.

As soon as I heard the last beep, I immediately jammed my card into the machine. As the word APPROVED flashed across the screen, I looked up, pulling the card from the reader—and the name tag of the cashier caught my eye: Patience.

Stunned, I inquired if that was actually her name. Upon confirmation, I asked if I could take a picture, explaining to her that I was going to share this moment with someone I assumed wouldn’t believe me.

Curiosity led me to question Christian about his drawing when I got home. His innocent explanation was beyond the scope of anything I’d have considered.

“Well, Mommy, Grandma gave me seeds to plant a butterfly garden. They’re in the garage, and I was thinking, I would plant the seeds in a pot and then hang this sign over it, because as things are growing, you need to have patience.”

This, from an eight-year-old boy.

This wasn't just about my impatience. It was about nurturing growth and trusting the process—rather than the instant gratification, relief, and control I’d always been seeking. I knew in that moment that God was not only listening—but that I had started to develop a personal relationship with Him.

Later that night, I sent a text to my sponsor, revealing the lengthy details of the day. I read her summation—poignant and succinct. It was just two sentences:

“In literature, the author often uses repetition to drive a point home. God must think you’re a slow learner.”

I laughed. That day, I learned that God responds when I sincerely seek Him—He is always listening, and He is always patient.

Jaime Hrobar