I sit in the 5:30 a.m. silence, the passing seconds needling me. It’s Thursday, and I’m set to do what I always do, but I come up empty.
What do I write today, Lord? I’m out of ideas, and I don’t have time.
You always have time.
And that’s my answer. That’s how it comes, all the inspiration over the years. If it’s good, it drops into my spirit in the stillness–when I’m patient enough to listen.
I’m obsessed with time–like my dad was–and if my insides had a leg to bounce, they’d be doing just that as I note the movement of the minute hand on the analog clock above the kitchen sink.
I put the brakes on my nature, forcing my thrumming to stop. NO. I will breathe and write, write and breathe. And for the first time in all these years, I think this is God’s mercy over my life to slow me with the written word–His and my own.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
If The Byrds’ hit song from 1965, “Turn! Turn! Turn!”, is playing in your mind right now, I offer either an “I’m sorry” or a “you’re welcome,” depending on your outlook.
Inspired by Ecclesiastes, I’m opting for balance over productivity on the only July 13, 2023 I’ll ever have.
What are you choosing for your time today?
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