time passes

Church was full this morning. Everyone sat a little closer together. Everyone sang a little louder. There were more hugs, and more laughter afterward.

It all makes me a little sad.

That didn’t come out right. Maybe, I should explain.

The church is full because the teachers and professors are returning from their summer travels, their mission trips, their expeditions to expand horizons in their own minds so they can do the same for their students.

Hmmm. I seem to be making it worse instead of better.

I want to be very clear. I like the teachers and professors. I really do. It’s just that if they’re coming back, the students can’t be far behind.

Oh. That’s no better either, is it?

I love the students coming back, too. Really, I do. They fill the place with life and joy—optimism, even.

Let me give this one more shot, okay?

Their return (both teachers and students) means summer is almost over. Even the weather this week belies the calendar. Temperate days and cool nights have descended and rain has come back.

Oh, I know the summer weather will return with a vengeance. It always does in late August and September.

But, the thought is planted in my head and I can’t shake it. Summer is passing; already it’s nearly past.

And somehow, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit clutching a pocket watch and muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late.”

I never did find out exactly what the nervous hare was worried about being tardy for, but still, I can’t help thinking I haven’t accomplished everything I should have.

I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady a few days ago and she reminded me of all we’ve done this summer. I listened to her list and I had to smile. We covered some ground—we did. But, I wanted to do more.

I suppose it will always be that way. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as Mr. Browning explained so well. But, I fall short so often.

I wanted to do more—and better.

I think of all the time wasted believing it couldn’t be done. You know—it. Whatever the new thing in front of me was.

I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?

I stood underneath the new ceiling fan with my son-in-law this afternoon and I had to laugh. He was bemoaning the fact that he has no confidence in working with electrical wiring. If he did, he would have a fan hanging from his ceiling as quickly as you could say downdraft.

I did. I laughed.

Man, electricity is easy! That over there—that’s what frightens me silly.

I jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor I am currently trying to cover with vinyl tile.

I’m not exaggerating, nor am I bragging. We purchased the materials for the job weeks ago. I stood for hours staring at the bare sub-floor before I could bring myself to even open the first box of tile.

Hanging the ceiling fan took half an hour. Less.

Yeah, but that stuff won’t kill you. The electricity could.

I laugh at his logic. He is right.

I like being in control. I enjoy doing things which make me look good to the folks around me. The problem is God doesn’t always give me assignments with which I’m comfortable.

When I want to stand in front of folks and speak of things with which I’m familiar, He tells me to climb under the house and repair the plumbing.

When I would rather repair a guitar with buzzing strings, He assigns me to pray with the man who’s just lost his wife of sixty years.

We waste a lot of time wishing He’d give us something else to do. I know I do.

I spend my breath—the breath He put in my lungs—attempting to convince Him I could be so much more use to Him doing the same things I’ve always done.

Moses said, What if they don’t listen to me? And God replied, Who do you think determines if people listen? Or see? Or speak? I will give you the tools! Just go! (Exodus 4:10-13)

Here we are again at the small end of the year. The hours of daylight are getting shorter.

And still, I stand and argue my case.

How much time I’ve wasted.

Is there still time? Yes. With Sam Gamgee’s old dad, I’ve said it many times—where there’s life, there’s hope.

It’s just time to quit stalling.

Or, as we used to say in those ball games we played in empty fields at the end of days full of activity:

Get a move on! The light’s going!

With the thought that summer might be running out comes a renewed urgency. Not much time now. Falling leaves are just around the corner. Hot cocoa and all things pumpkin flavored.

To everything, there is a season.

I want to use the breath He gave me for the purposes He intended it for. Today.

Use the breath He gave for His purposes. Do it today. Share on X

What’s that in your hand?

It’s time to use it. You might want to get a move on.

The light’s going.

We are not as strong as we think we are.
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And, with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart,
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are.
(Rich Mullins ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1955-1997)

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
(Ecclesiastes 9:10 ~ KJV)

“I think the word moment would work better than minute in this instance.”

I’ve mentioned before that the Lovely Lady acts as an unofficial editor, a filter of sorts, for me in my frequent ventures into writing. Most mornings after I post one of these essays, I find an email in my inbox which bears her return address.

The terse, one word subject helps me to be prepared for the bad news. All it says is Blog.

As much as I love reading her notes (she always ends them with an I love you and, for some reason I kind of like that), I don’t want to be told I’ve made an error.

This is one error I make frequently. Time, it seems is of little import to me in real life, so I regard it almost as lightly in my writing. That said, I do know the difference between the two words.

A minute is a set period of time—sixty seconds—one sweep of the second hand around the circumference of an analog clock. It is not some ethereal, arbitrary concept hanging out in eternity, available to fit into whatever parameters I wish it to be stuffed.

Of minutes, there is a finite supply. One thousand four hundred forty, every day. Weeks, years, decades, centuries—all of them are filled with minutes of sixty seconds each.

Not so, the moment. Moments, I can elongate to make them last as long as I wish. On the other hand, I may also abbreviate them to my heart’s content.

The definition of a moment is, quite simply, a short period of time. It is a fuzzy, arbitrary unit of measurement, determined by the perspective through which it is viewed.

A moment in history could, when viewed from the perspective of modern-day man, be a century. If we speak of a moment of decision, that instant upon which rests all of life for one person or even a civilization, it might be merely a fraction of a second.

We get to define what a moment is.

And in defining moments, we have a view of our past.

We get to define what a moment is. And in defining moments, we have a view of our past. Share on X

Somehow, I don’t think that is what most readers expected when they read the title to this little essay. To most of us, the term defining moment has always meant a time period which determines who we are and the path our life will take.

A defining moment is one in which our destiny hangs in the balance and any choice we make will either make or break us.

Somehow, I don’t like the idea of a period of time defining who I am. Such a concept means that we are swept along at the whim of events, without direction—without a guiding truth—at the mercy of all about us.

I’d rather be defining moments in the light of our faith—pointing out where we were tempted to leave the path, but avoided the snare—recognizing the attacks of an unseen enemy who was powerless to sway us from our resolve—identifying the time period in which we served as we have been served.

The moments are defined, rather than them defining us. Oh, there are, without question, moments we can point to where decisions were made—decisions which have changed us for all time; The moment we were drawn to belief in a Savior, the moment we determined to follow close after Him, even moments we passed important landmarks along the way—marriages, births, deaths.

The moments don’t define us. Our Creator does.

Moments don't define us. Our Creator does. Share on X

Before even a single day of our life was lived, every moment was known to Him. Every moment, even those so-called defining ones. (Psalm 139:16)

Do you know where the word moment came from? It is derived from the Latin momentum, which is the equivalent of—well, of our word—momentum. (It also happens to come from the Middle English word, momentum, but we probably should stop beating that horse now, shouldn’t we?)

Moments always move forward. Time runs in only one direction for us. We can make a difference by what we do with this moment we are in and with future moments—nothing more.

We move forward. With no guarantee of a single minute ahead of us, we still have this moment in which we live, right now.

It may turn out to be the thinnest sliver of a moment ever cut from time, or it might be a great big wedge of a moment. We don’t know.

I want to define the moments in which I live. I want to be able to look back on every one of them and see that the momentum with which they were filled was, to quote Eugene Peterson, a long obedience in the same direction.

Every moment filled with purpose—His purpose.

Every moment.

Defining moments.

For You, a thousand years are as a passing day,
as brief as a few night hours.
(Psalm 90:4 ~ NLT)

Day by day, and with each passing moment,
Strength I find to meet my trials here;
Trusting in my Father’s wise bestowment,
I’ve no cause for worry or for fear.
He, whose heart is kind beyond all measure,
Gives unto each day what He deems best,
Lovingly it’s part of pain and pleasure,
Mingling toil with peace and rest.
(Day by Day ~ Lina Sandell ~ Swedish poet/hymnwriter ~ 1832-1902)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Summer is Passing

Defining Moment