5:45 a.m. The alarm hasn’t even gone off, but I hear them fighting. Sigh. One peek in the mirror, and I know it’s going to be a hopeless hair day. Ugh.
“Mom! Where are my clean clothes?”
I haven’t even had coffee yet or rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Babe, did you remember that I have that extra-long meeting tonight?” Time rushes us headlong into our day.
7:30 a.m. During the drive to school, I start mentally ticking through my to-do list and then my I-really-ought-to-but-who-has-time-for-it list. Time impatiently reminds me that I’ll probably never get it all done.
8:00 a.m. Walking back through the front door after school drop-off, I stand for a minute in the entryway, taking in the scattered socks, shoes, and other littered evidence of my kids. I eye the stack of dishes on the kitchen counter. I notice the two bills on the entryway table and the haphazard box that’s been shoved under it for weeks, ready to be unpacked. I see my laptop screen blinking neon at me. My watch reminds me to “check my progress.” Time demands to know why I haven’t done more.
How will I use the time I have today? It feels as though if I make one wrong step, the whole day might implode. Will I have anything to show for the hours marked by the clock? Time and I circle each other in a wrestling match where I’m pinned, apt to lose. I can’t tap out; I just have to keep moving. Time is never my ally.
“What if,” a mentor recently asked me, “you could make peace within by writing time a letter and seeing what time might say back?”
Dear Time, why are we always in opposition? Is there a way for us to work together, for you to induce less panic in my life? Out of time, Allison.
Still, I ask: Am I making the minutes of my life count? Each ticking minute presses that question further into my heart, its sharp edges cutting deeply. If I had written Psalm 90:12, it’d go something like this: “You have taught her to number her days, so that she could be anxious and twisted up in knots most of the time.”
This can’t be the way God intended me to live. Maybe time doesn’t have to take me under. What if I consider time to be God’s gift?
Dear Allison, imagine me as a cooling, gentle stream. Yes, ever moving, but gentle, like a mother. If you listen long enough, you might even be soothed by my rhythmic passing. Can you imagine us harmonizing, quite distinct, but working together creatively and with purpose? It just might take a little slowing. Always yours, Mother Time.
Read the rest with me at The Glorious Table…https://theglorioustable.com/2022/05/gods-gift-of-time/
