The Passing of Time

“I feel like we were just on this road yesterday” he said quietly, his mind chewing on the disbelief that our vacation week had passed so quickly.

“I know,” I answered back, my own mind nodding silently in agreement with his as if often does – the harmony of tethered souls.

“Time goes by so quickly, it’s just frightening.”

There it is. There’s that statement. The confession of our worried minds. The admittance of fear. The frustration of tired bodies. The sadness of our souls. The anger of the resisting. The grace of the accepting.

We all handle this fact differently. We all seem to chew on it, trying to meld it into a shape that we can tolerate. That we can swallow. That filters through our body and becomes one with our breath, as natural as the air we need to live. Our ability to see, really see, this fact that every day a little more time slips through our swiftly aging fingers.

Like shifting sand in an hour glass, a troubling image of losing time.

The truth of the matter is this. Life is fleeting, like thumbing through pages. Each day, a flip of time that seems insignificant in the big book of life, a blur to our eyes. But when you realize that each page documents a piece of our story, our journal, our own book of life, it becomes clear that every page, every word matters greatly. We want a complete book filled with stories great enough to inscribe on fine linen, aged and stored as a journaled treasure for our future generations.

I toyed around with that thought on the remainder of our drive home, trying to gnaw my way through the huge lump in my throat that I couldn’t believe was there.

A simple comment. A passing thought. A dramatic response. What was wrong? Was I being melodramatic? Or were the emotions of life penetrating the armor that we coat ourselves with every day. A protective shield we wear to face troubling thoughts and challenging days. And only in the closet of our soul, we scream, we cry, we shout injustices and weep for the passing of time, of lost youth.

I look in the mirror sometimes and can hardly believe my eyes. Could the lines now framing them, my smile lines, be more than they were last week? Could my dimple be deeper? Could my body be weaker. My walk slower. My memory dimmer.

As we leaf through the picture albums in our mind and recall the person that once looked back at us in our mirrors, we see a stranger dressed in our clothes. Some of us see our mothers and fathers, a vision of our older selves we once looked across the table as we sadly watched their youth fall off of them like shedding skin. For others, we see someone we don’t know or only thought we knew. We’ve looked at that face every day for all of our lives and suddenly, it’s as if we didn’t see the change before. We never saw it coming, Our still youthful soul looks shockingly at someone they hardly recognize.

Through misting eyes, we watch our lives move through the days, weeks, and months, like a snap of a finger. We watch our children move steadily through their own lives, with sturdy legs and thoughtful hearts. The same legs that once wrapped themselves around our waist, a baby hold around our necks, cheek to cheek, molding their tiny hearts against ours, whispering “I love you, mommy” in ears that savored each word. We watch our grandchildren get taller and smarter and move, in their own world, replicas of all of us, small souvenirs of previous generations. A delight to our eyes, a confirmation to our souls. We really do live on.

We acknowledge the truth of our fears. That life is short. Fleeting. The smallest fraction in the sum total of our moments. We, too, will soon be a memory.

The message is clear to me, how we must write the final chapters in our book that God and we are partners in. We must live with purpose, with joy, with laughter. We must mark each sentence with exclamation points, a profound punctuation of a day well lived. We must see the world and open our minds to new beauty, new experiences, new soul enriching visions. We must wrap our own arms tightly around our family and friends, giving love without pause, leaving a lasting impression on the lives that are still ours to touch, imprinting their bodies with the feeling of our arms embracing them. Cheek to cheek. Heart against heart. Whispering “I love you” into their grownup ears.

So they will remember it always. So that on our last day, in our last minute, in our last breath, we will know. It was a life well lived. And will not be forgotten.

We must savor these chapters for what they are. A glorifying testimony to the blessing of life. A life worthy of reading. A book to be remembered, cherishingly put on a shelf for future generations to lovingly run their youthful fingers over the bindings that bear their name.

I look back at my ancestors whose blood I cherish and wonder sometimes about their lives. I wonder if they were happy. I wonder if they were loved. I wonder if their lives were cut short of reaching the fullness that was theirs for the taking. A book not fully finished. I look at their photos – the ones passed on over time. Black and white stills, crinkled edges scarred with time. The passing from one generation to the next, each searching for a sign – a trait that we carry that might have been theirs. We search for happiness. Or emotion. Or a glimpse into who they were inside. We see posed figures, emotionless eyes. Starched collars. Stiff postures. Blank faces, masking what lies beneath – the things we’ll never know.

For just one day, I wish that I could live in their world to see how they lived. I long to see the colorful souls behind their eyes. To see their smiles and to hear their laughter. To watch them play with their kids. To sit beside them and hear them whisper tenderly to me “I had a life well lived.”

I think about this as I wonder about their lives. And I think of what I’ll leave my children and my grandchildren, to be passed on to theirs. I think about the future families that will carry my blood and who will wonder about me and who I was. And I realize that’s why I write. Words that tell my story. My thoughts left behind. Traces of my soul. The vibrant colors of my world. The urge to make it last and to let them know before I’m gone. I had a life well lived.

So…..

Live your life and live it well.

Make it yours. Bend the corner down on this page of your book, marking the day that it all rang true.

Embrace your family. Imprint them with you.

Feel Love. Give Love.

Eat the cake. Drink the wine.

Explore the unknown. Be adventurous. See the beauty in each day.

Choose your tribe wisely. May they only bring joy.

Laugh loudly and often.

Be happy.

And always know…..

It’s the simple things that bring us joy.