“Hurry up!” I urge. I’m going a thousand miles an hour and still I cannot get it all done.
School’s in session, we’re swinging hard and fast from the rafters already–it’s only September. It’s already September.
I realize at lunch time I haven’t had a drop to drink since my morning coffee. I’m thirsty for more than water.
Every day progresses much the same, a blur of activity and meals made and promptly eaten, rooms picked up only to be wrecked again by bed time, clothes washed and then immediately back in the pile for another washing. Life is a circle of monotony that goes on and on. I never stop rummaging through, looking for the beauty at the bottom of the heap.
We spin and whip through the minutes, and my head pounds. I need water. I need to sit down.
I need to breathe. I need to go slow–
I realize by bath time, that nearly everything out of my mouth ends in “____, hurry up”.
What on earth am I rushing for?
I’m asking myself, but I don’t know the answer–I really don’t.
“It’s nearly 10AM, hurry up, we have school work to do.”
“Lunch is ready, hurry up and sit down.”
“It’s nearly quiet time, hurry up and finish eating.”
“It’s nearly time for Taekwondo, hurry up and change, hurry up and get in the car, hurry up class is starting…”
I run like I’m up against a clock, all. day. long–like something dark and tragic is waiting for us if we don’t meet some unknown deadline. I hear Ann’s words in my head,
“In our rushing, bulls in china shops, we break our own lives.”
I’m breaking things with my hurry. I know it.
Saturday, by the blessed grace of God, the hurry ceased.
I found a break when we launched out onto the lake, we had the boat for the day and time became irrelevant. The lull of the motor and the wind in our hair snuffed out any sense of urgency.
I’m not sure I said “hurry up” once. I know I didn’t feel the rush.
But something happens when we cross the threshold of the front door. I feel myself winding up again, the tension of time drawing my shoulders up to my ears and my neck beginning to ache with worry–
And that’s what it is–worry. Fear is what keeps me rushing. I’ve always been afraid of falling short.
Teach me to number my days, Lord.
Having named the beast I seek to slay it. Fear is an old foe here, we are familiar enemies.
I can only choose to stand up to it one moment at a time, a moment that exists outside of real time. The clock is only the dictator I allow it to be and in remembering this I break a small link in fear’s coat of arms against me.
Time will beat on and it’s my choice to march militarily to it’s persistent beat or to sing to the humming of it’s constant winding.
Today, with all that hangs on the calendar, with all that waits to be done, I choose singing over marching.
Maybe, we will even dance.
O Lord, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am! Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths, and my lifetime is as nothing before you. Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath! Psalm 39:4-5