On Time

My two-year-old, Logan, holding his great-great-grandfather's pocket watch.

In honor of my 34^th birthday in ten days, I thought I'd share a personal essay I wrote in college, June 19, 2002, five days before my 21st birthday.

On Time

Time marches on.  I wonder who ever thought of putting time in a band.  Or is it an army?
Once when I was six years old I put a cheese quesadilla in the microwave for 60 seconds.  I remember watching each second tick by in green digits with a growing sense of horror, 59, 58, 57… flinching when the timer buzzed.  “I just watched a minute of my life tick by,” I thought.  “A minute that I can never, ever get back.  Ever.”  The tortilla tasted stale and stuck to the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat.  I washed it down with a glass of water.

Time flies when you’re having fun.  When I was three and a half years old I went to a party thrown for most of my extended family.  Aunts and uncles, cousins and friends all pinched my cheeks and took turns carrying me around in their arms or playing with me.  My dad says that most of the evening he would look over at me and see me laughing, enjoying the attention.  Until at one point when he was in the middle of a conversation with his brother whom he hadn’t seen in a long time, I interrupted him by putting my hand on his leg and saying, “Daddy!  Daddy!”  He looked down to find me weeping.  He lifted me up, asking, “What’s wrong honey?”
“Well, it’s just that we’re at this party, and we’re all having so much fun, and pretty soon—it will all just be a memory!”  I put my face on his shoulder and sobbed.  Hard.  He had no idea how to console me.  He just let me cry.

One moment in time.   I’ve never understood people who live like they think they’re going to live forever.  I’ve never understood why professors and pastors always feel like they need to remind us of our mortality, remind us that our lives are short.  Don’t we know without their telling us?  Can’t we just feel it?  Everywhere we look around us, can’t we just see it?  I’m turning 21 in five days.  12 months, 360 days ago I was turning 20.  That’s one year gone, just like that.  One year that I watched tick by, just like the microwave.  I’m gonna need a glass of water to wash this down.  If I blink again I’ll be 22.

Time heals all wounds.  That always struck me as sounding rather calloused.  Cold even.  Certainly not true.  But I remember when a four-year romance and my plans for marriage ended in a flat rejection.  “Time heals all wounds” became my saving grace.  I remember waking up every morning clinging to those words.  Begging God to help me make it through one more day.  Begging Him to make the time heal me.  I suppose it did.  Only time will tell.

Redeeming the time.  I would like to wake up in time to watch the sunrise, every day.  I would tell it, “Good morning,” and the sheet of blue slowly covering up the great page of black would be its “Good morning” back to me.  I’d like to read my Bible every morning and go for a walk outside every day.  I’d like to actually “smell the flowers” and play with my little sister every afternoon.  I’d like to close my eyes every time I put ice cream in my mouth and feel its cold sweetness trickle down my throat.  I’d like to look the people I meet in the eye, really see them, and bring a little joy or hope to their day.  I'd like to tell more people about Jesus and what He’s done for me.  I’d like to.  I’d really, really like to—but I just don’t have the time.  

Well, a lot of time has passed since I wrote this piece.  I have been happily married to the boy referenced above for almost ten years.  At the time I wrote this, we had been broken up for a year, and it would be another year before we got back together.  We now have three wonderful kids. Looking back, sometimes I've remembered to cherish the moments, sometimes not, and I think that's okay.  Thank you for reading.  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.