‘Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom.’ Psalms 90:12(NLT)
‘For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away. A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.’ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8(NLT)
‘Look here, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we are going to a certain town and will stay there a year. We will do business there and make a profit.” How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone. What you ought to say is, “If the Lord wants us to, we will live and do this or that.” Otherwise you are boasting about your own pretentious plans, and all such boasting is evil. Remember, it is sin to know what you ought to do and then not do it.’ James 4:13-17(NLT)
My boots sank into the slush covering the dirt road. My four-month-old nestled against me, bundled between my overalls and a wool sweater that made me feel like a native to the cold.
But it wasn’t cold; it was a mild 43 degrees. I wore no Cuddl Duds, no gloves, no hat.
Three months ago, when we moved during Wisconsin’s harshest November since 1898, I would have rejoiced to have a respite like this.
And yet, over the past month since my husband’s brain surgery, I had barely noticed the weather. Instead, I had focused on surviving. Putting one foot in front of the other. Counting my blessings, though that rote phrase made me want to grit my teeth.
The morning after Randy’s horrific pincushion spinal tap, which the neurosurgeon performed to check for infection, I said to my husband’s prone form, “There has to be a break in the clouds. It has to get better than this.”
And it did.
I could have wept while walking those slush-covered dirt roads because—one month after I thought I might lose my husband—he was not only alive, but well.
His incision was healing; his hair growing back; his energy and orneriness simultaneously returning, so that he told me, “I’m really going to tear it up,” to see the alarm on my face.
I was not widowed at twenty-eight. I still had someone who could help me run our solar-powered farm, replete with its temperamental windmill and quirks.
More importantly, my daughters still had a father, and I was still a wife.
I once took these factors for granted because I knew my husband would never leave; I never considered he could be taken from me.
Then, life and death faced off, and suddenly time was precious. Everything was precious.
I was aware, though, of human nature and that, with our return to normality, we would soon return to our more “efficient” usage of time.
I viewed this frailty firsthand, as my toddler daughter stood in front of the sink, splashing in the bubbles after washing her hands.
“I don’t have time for this,” I snapped.
And then I stopped, stared at my startled reflection in the mirror, and reminded myself that I did have time for this.
I had all the time in the world.
Conversation Starter: How do you find the balance between being present and being productive? Have you ever experienced a trial that realigned your priorities as a couple? How did that experience change your perspective on time?
Getting Started: Write down a list of your priorities—from greatest to least. The next day, chart how much time you give to those priorities. Does the time you give match your priority list?
from Marriage: Handle With Care