My grandfather stands, handsome and stoic, counting the
hours, minutes, seconds of my life.
At almost eight feet tall, he sits slap dab in the middle of
the long hallway that dissects the front part of my southern home and the
rear. His handsome face – the face of
Father Time – is encircled by a hand-painted moon dial featuring the seasons of
the year. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. He is forever watchful as my family gathers
in the great room in the evening and as we hurry past him in the morning,
rushing to leave for the day. Often as I
pass, my hand reaches out to touch him affectionately, absentmindedly, feeling
the cool, smooth grain of his buffed mahogany case.
For the past ten years, Grandfather has told me when it is
time to get up and when it is time to go to bed. His melodious chimes have been the backdrop
for all of our holiday celebrations and his long, slender hands have officially
announced the arrival of the New Year for the past decade. I
have wearily listened to his lonely calling of the early morning hours during
sleepless, worry-filled nights and anxiously counted down the hours with him as
I waited for my son to get home after a long trip.
Loudly and with purpose, Grandfather has warned me through
the years that time flies out of my hands like sand blowing on a deserted
beach.
Suddenly, last summer, my grandfather clock fell silent. He no longer reminds me when it is time to
leave for my hour-long commute to work or when it is time for my family to
arrive for a holiday dinner. I cannot
lie awake at night listening for time
and am no longer comforted by his chiming voice.
At first I thought I could fix him. I tinkered with his innards and pushed around
some of his parts, but he refused to speak to me. I catch myself whispering to him as I pass
by, asking him to please come back to me.
I miss his sweet music and I miss having time fill my home with ticks and tocks, music and chimes.
Not having my old clock to announce that I am running late
or that deadlines are near or that the day is coming to an end, has made me
re-evaluate how I spend my time. I’ve
found that I am a very poor steward of time.
I have been so very blessed in my life, but I’m not so sure
I have taken the time to enjoy the blessings.
Days turn into weeks that turn into months and before I know it, a year
has passed. My son was born, started
walking, went to school, learned to love music, started college….and I was
present for all those events. At least
in body. I’m pretty sure my mind was
thinking about the next meeting or what to feed the people coming to my house
after the event or how I was going to manage getting from place to place on
time. And, I am positive I never took the time to savor the small things.
We
live in a 24/7 society with instant messaging, instant coffee, instant meals
and instant replays.
Like so many others, I spent the first half of my life
reaching for the stars. More money. Bigger house.
Faster car. Better title. Today, I would give a year’s salary or more
just to spend one more day with my daddy.
Live and learn, an old adage that is so very true. The Bible says, “So teach us to number our
days that we may get a heart of wisdom. (Psalm 90:12) I have made more money; have a bigger house;
driven a faster car and have a nice title following my name. Today, I want more wisdom, more quiet time,
and a bigger heart for Jesus. There simply is not enough time in our lives to
do all the things our heart desires. It
doesn’t matter how much time we have; it matters what we do with that time.
A dear friend gave me the book, “The Knowledge of the Holy”
by A. W. Tozer and it has become daily required reading for me. I love this quote from Tozer:
“The days of the years of our lives are few, and swifter
than a weaver’s shuttle. Life is a short
and fevered rehearsal for a concert we cannot stay to give. Just when we appear to have attained some
proficiency we are forced to lay our instruments down. There is simply not time enough to think, to
become, and to perform what the constitution of our nature indicates we are
capable of.”
He continues, “How completely satisfying to turn from our
limitations to a God who has none.
Eternal years lie in His heart.
For Him, time does not pass, it remains; and those who are in Christ
share with Him all the riches of limitless time and endless years.”
Because time is such a precious and priceless gift, we
should manage it very well and strive to be good stewards of our time. I
guess it took the silence of my grandfather clock to remind me to seek silence
and peace in my life.
To stop. To
listen. To be grateful.
Very early Saturday morning I was alone having coffee in my
kitchen. My house was quiet and still; everyone else still asleep. No radios or televisions or cell phones. Just me and my dog, Zeke. As I sat there, I realized that I was hearing
music from somewhere. Very faintly, I
could hear a melody of some kind. I
wandered out of the kitchen and stood in the middle of the house trying to
determine where the lovely sound was coming from. As I neared my Grandfather clock, I
stopped. I laid my head against his
wooden case and listened. Sure enough, I
could hear his chimes. He had not
stopped speaking to me at all. He was
just whispering and I had not been still or quiet enough to hear him. If I leaned my ear against his wooden chest
and listened carefully, I could hear his Westminister chimes clearly, followed
by his Big Ben dong striking the 6 am hour.
I stopped. I
listened. I am grateful.
