It’s Sunday afternoon and every corner of our little world is bathed in golden light. Only half of our family is home, and the house is still as can be because those who are here are sleeping. The man of the house and I have been struggling to communicate and it feels to me that there should be grey skies but all is calm and all is bright. How can there be this level of rightness when all is not perfect with us? My hair has been parted into two elaborate pony tails, the left one coming out of my left temple and the right one far back at the base of my neck. Our Light-Bringer (that’s literally the meaning of her name) child styled it for me before dressing all her dollies and then curling up next to me on the bed, and now that I am awake I cannot bring myself to undo the perfect imperfection.
I seem to have a problem with time. Somewhere at the core of me I think that things will follow a pattern and that if rules are obeyed there will be results. It’s quite a clinical, task-oriented way of thinking and I cannot imagine where I picked it up. I catch wind of something in the air and when it doesn’t happen immediately my hopes crash and I spend days trying to pick up all the pieces broken on the rocks. When the seasons take too long to turn, I begin to turn so that at least there can be spring when I say, but I am not the Keeper of the Clock. As the minutes go by, I am realising that there is a mystery wrapped up in the end from the beginning and that time is full of surprises. If I will stop trying to manage everything so carefully, I will discover that yes, the night gives way to day and the seasons come and go, but that in darkness there is light and that whilst some things take forever others happen before you know it.
Faithful, ancient washing machine stopped working the other day. Just like that, right in the middle of piles of sweaty clothes and grubby towels and vast mounds of linen. Thankfully, my parents live just metres away and the stone path connects us in the good times and bad. This could have been a domestic catastrophe, but the washing machine at the cottage came to our rescue and the sun dried each load and kind hands folded it all for us. All went well for two days and then the rescue machine burnt out and I found myself hands plunged deep and red in the bath, dirty clothes turning clean as clean water turned dirty. I was out of control, losing time and as quickly as the machine stopped, I became the robot. Beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead, apples for cheeks, heartsick because the new machine wouldn’t be ready for weeks and now my already full day was becoming even fuller. I predicted hard work as I faced the facts and never once thought that tomorrow the guy who fixes washing machines would find the tiny reason why ours wasn’t working and fix it in a matter of minutes. I peered into the milky sky that evening, thin breezes carrying the songs, hoots and whistles of night jars, owls and frogs. Our cupboards filled with freshly folded clothes, clean towels waiting in the bathrooms, sun-scented linen on the beds. I am not a robot, and sometimes time stands still.
One son washes cars to raise funds for an upcoming squash tour. Whilst he works he whistles and sings and carries brushes, cloths and buckets back and forth as he buffs and shines. I think of the twenty cars he will need to wash to begin making any substantial amount. If he does this, he will get that. It just so happens that a fairy god-mother of sorts hears of the fund raising efforts and instead of driving her car around, she opens her purse and hands over big bills for the car washer boy. Just because. He is not even at home, he is on camp! Suddenly my theory of what would need to happen in order to see results is turned on its head and I witness my child experience unexpected favour, generosity and provision. The fullness of time arrives way quicker than anticipated.
The sight of blood is as familiar as the moon swelling and dwindling during every normal month, but when a baby is in the womb, blood makes blood run cold. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I waited to see the doctor. “It’s not time.” I whispered, hands clasped protectively in knots over my flat belly. In that cold, blue room, we watched the screen. There. The object of my passion and affection. A little cashew nut of a human, beating heart flashing like a star. The heart beats and beats and the bleeding stops and 7 months later I hold him slippery and pink as a new sun rises. It’s time. Not a moment late, not a moment too soon.
The One who holds eternity in His hands makes all things beautiful when the time is right (Ecc 3 v 11). Sometimes we will wait because the end product needs more time or because our own selves need more time and sometimes He will do it swiftly (Is 60 v 22). At times it will all go according to plan, exactly as we imagined and hoped. Thankfully, if we can just learn to trust, there are times when nothing is going as we think it should and that is the beauty of it all. We can make our plans and do our best, but even if rhythms and cycles of life are somewhat predictable, there has never been a sunrise exactly as the one before it. Life is unfolding and this moment, right now, is our one certainty; our gift.
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