The clock in our office is five minutes slow.
As a result, or maybe for reasons having nothing to do with the clock, we start late and end late.
Each morning we sit around the round table in the middle of the room, talking about the weekend or the sunshine or a recent trip or traffic or childhood memories or previous jobs or whatever. It’s morning prayer time that always starts with conversation. We can’t help ourselves. We like being together and sharing life.
Each afternoon, we sit at keyboards clicking frantically.
“Go home!” our boss calls at us as he packs up his bag.
“No!” we yell back and give him one reason or another that we need to stay.
One afternoon it dawned on me how ironic this exchange was. I’m sure few employees argue with their boss to let them stay later.
The clock shifts methodically beside us, it’s hands stiffly ushering in each new minute. Under its watch, we send out teams and we travel with them and we pray for teams and their funds and their unity and their impact, most of all. We process paperwork and make calls and write and set budgets and book flights and problem solve.
Time doesn’t seem to follow the methodical measured nature of this clock It wanes and waxes, speeds and slows. Draws in breaths and exhales.
The nature of travel, our livelihood, is strung to this clock, yet how arbitrary it sounds, in its constant ticking.
Dear present moment,
My eyes have been red for the past month — sometimes from dryness of the sun and the heat, sometimes from tears, sometimes from the long hours I have required of my contacts.
I can feel the fatigue ebbing and flowing in my veins. I can see my to do list growing longer, not shorter. There are fewer check marks by that list that I would prefer.
I can feel the sorrow and uncertainty gnawing on my peripheral consciousness. I am worried for the man who was always a source of strength, from my time as a little girl with pig tails to the woman I have become. There has always been more heartbreak mixed in with the adventure than I would like. But this kind is contains a special suppressed panic. I am so scared. I am so scared.
I can feel the the weeks slipping by too quickly. They are like sand in my fingers, pulling from my reach. Disappearing into the anonymity of the sea shore.
I can feel the joy, in the thick of it all. I can feel His whisper, telling me yet again to trust Him.
I wish that I could freeze you, stretch you into something longer. So I could get it all done. So I could dance with him a little longer in the midst of his uncertain future. So I could relish the sunshine and the trees and the mountains more. So I could listen closer for His voice.
If you could pause, just for a moment.