Confession: I worship My Time. I think.

I distinctly remember the day I started Kindergarten. I was in the backyard of my aunt’s house delighting in and completely occupied with playing on the swing-set. With each pass of the of the swing’s cadence, the late summer air wildly blew my hair back and forth into and outof my face. I could be in this Moment for ever.

Breaking into my ecstasy was my mother’s voice, “Jayne, it is Time to come inside and get ready for school.”

Grief filled me. Even as a 5 year old, I realized that I was no longer the keeper of my own time. Someone else would now tell me how to spend my days.

I am still debating whether the Grief was the loss of my naivete about our Falleness — we shall live our days toiling with the ground –and ‘Living those Days’ was inaugurated in that moment. Or, even at a tender 5 years, a heart can be entangled with false Loves. Someone just took away what I Supremely love.

My time. I do worship My Time. I protect it, hoard it, fight for it, spend it wildy for my own delight and pleasures.

The Jury is still out.

We are generally gullible about news of scarcity. We have, it seems, an inbuilt skittishness about shortfall. This has been with us a long while, since the garden, by my reckoning.
Most of us live afraid that we’re almost out of time. But you and I, we’re heirs of eternity. We’re not short of days.
We just need to number then aright.
The Rest of God, Mark Buchanan

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