Time has become my ultimate enemy. Not the great hooded figure whom Shakespeare fears, standing and cradling his massive scythe, but instead his nasty, pockmarked little cousin who crouches on the floor and counts out the hours like currency. He carries a scythe too: it’s small and sharp and with it he kills sleep and he kills joy.
Okay. Well then. Now that that ponderous metaphor is out of my system, we can move along.
Really, though, I am staging a rebellion against minutes and deadlines and ticking second hands. Or trying to, at least. This semester has been too much for me in some ways. I was secretly triumphant last week when my alarm clock gave up the ghost and I blissfully slept an extra hour and a half.
I’ve just had a nice long car ride full of no obligations (i.e. a little computer that will no longer hold a charge) and friendly company, so in the spirit of my revolution against the pressure of the hours, I’d like to propose the following amendments to my own manifesto.
-Don’t antagonize sleep. When you go to bed in the wee hours and are still not able to rest, don’t pull out your computer again to do a little more. Be patient. Wait.
-When the number and scale of responsibilities frighten you, pray over your hours.
-Eat meals at the table. Try not to bring your work with you.
-Remember it’s only little old you and your little old worries. And God is very great.
-Take long baths.
-Place diligence over deadlines. Think of whatever your mother would say.
-Remember that you love to write and read and talk. Don’t let yourself twist God’s blessings into burdens.
-Wage war on the passive voice with courage. Go forth and do. Do the next thing.
The notes above are obviously intended for time immemorial, but it’s also worth pointing out that this is Holy Week. The hours of this week have great import for life and death and death-in-life and life-in-death. So I will pause, and worship, and remember Him who is eternal, who created time and came down to enter it Himself, who knows that it too may be redeemed.