Time to Write

December begins, no surprise. The page on the calendar turns, the countdown to Christmas begins also. Remember the television announcements? “Only twenty-two more shopping days ’til Christmas Day.”  The melody of the jingle arrives with the thought of the words. This season the days until our son’s wedding could be added to the countdown with many others:  first semester ends, Christmas Concert,  Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, wedding, New Year’s, grandchild due.  The calendar on my desk is printed with two small sets of numbers next to the dates. The numbers count both the remaining days of the month and the year. They tell time; time, counted and measured as if it were a commodity.

Make time… production is impossible.

Take time…the past will not give, nor the future lend to the present.

Save time…no bank vault can contain it.

Spend time…only what is possessed can be bartered.

Use time… the gift to be utilized, the gift that directs forward, the gift of grace, “…here in time and afterwards in eternity…”

One Advent candle burned in the window last evening, the first of four that mark the time to Christmas. One, two, three, four steady flames that lit in time point to the eternity outside of time. Christmas will be celebrated with all the traditions or not so many; our son and his intended will say ” I do” whether the rehearsal dinner has five kinds of cookies or one; the baby will be born; students pass or fail; I will write more than I anticipated or less.  Seconds, minutes, hours, days and weeks will advance, heedless of  the scribbles on the calendar. I cannot make, take, save or spend time. I may utilize the gift this month as all the other gifts from God, seeking to use it for His glory, here in time and afterwards in eternity.

Comments

Sue Anne Kirkham says:

Ooh, ooh; that’s the spot. I was here to read your most recent post, but this one is the one that I needed to see. Like the person with a nagging itch that couldn’t be reached, I am now relieved of my agonizing and ready to dive back into the puddle of time this day affords me, however shallow or deep, re-inspired to spend it promoting His glory, and not my own. That is the balm for the misery that no contortions of my own could have eased. Thank you.

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