Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
(Psalm 90:12, NIV)
In the seconds it takes you to read these sentence, time you will never get back is gone. Whether we like it or not, time slips quickly through our fingertips and the moment you thought you had to spend has vanished into memory. Wrist-watch time doesn’t pause and give you time to think about what to do with it. It simply moves the hands of the clock forward, ever forward, asking you,
“What are you going to do with me?”
This fall, I’ve been relentlessly pursuing the fact that time matters.
The time I have spent on my phone.
The time I have spent watching television.
The time I have spent reading a book.
The time I have spent writing a sentence.
The time I have spent teaching or playing or
driving or yelling or praying or worshiping.
Every single moment in time matters.
And while what I do with my time matters at my job, or with my friends, or with my dreams, nothing matters more than the time I have with my children. It’s very short. From birth to high school graduation is less than 1,000 weeks. As much as I’d like it to be longer, it won’t be. I can’t lengthen it. I can only strengthen it.
In the next few weeks, two of my children will celebrate birthdays.
We’ll celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas.
And a New Year will begin.
Week after week will pass into memory.
And time will ask, “What have you done with me?”
I was reminded of this in a heart-wrenching way yesterday when a family friend lost her 16 year old son in a car accident. One moment he had kissed his mom goodbye and was on his way to school. The next moment he was gone. Out of wrist-watch time and into eternity.
What will you do with it?
You have a limited number of weeks with your kids.
And it may be even more limited than you realize.
The clock will keep ticking.
Time will move on.
And you will be tired.
And you won’t have enough money.
And you’ll want some “alone time.”
Time will move on.
And one day, they won’t ask anymore.
They won’t ask you to dance.
They won’t ask you to snuggle.
They won’t ask you to pray with them or play with them or read to them or watch a movie with them.
Because one day, they will be gone.
And you’ll ask time, “What did I do with you?”