I love love's patience. Love is confident in its own fullness and the inevitability of its object being brought to the same. For this reason minor degrees of perfection can be more readily celebrated, and these celebrations are the more precious (rather than diminished) because the fullness has yet to come.
Here's a loose analogy for one aspect of this. I made a cake once, just to eat it. When I iced it, it crumbled to pieces, and I laughed out loud the whole time. It wasn't made for presentation, it was made to eat, so it was fine that it fell apart. It was still cake! What might have otherwise been quite distressing tended more toward a happy near delirium. It was fantastic! The cake was free to fall, and I was wonderfully pleased. It wasn't the cake it was "supposed" to be; it was divine.
When faced with apparent disorder, love recognizes and finds glad participation with the divine.
Love's patience is at rest in the desert, in a way I don't think it can be in the rich valley. I don't mean to juxtapose the worth of the two, but to say this. The one who has known the refreshment of streams in the desert enjoys those of the valley in a way another could not. I may or may not enjoy another cake better than that broken cake, but now my enjoyment of every cake is better for it.
Love doesn't feel the need for a good presentation, at least not in the way that would disrupt joy in the midst of imperfection. There's an exalted culinary artist who is perfectly crafting each one of us for specific purposes. Love praises his wisdom at every stage of development. Love knows the mess in the bowl will melt in his mouth, and treats it with the same respect.
