There are so few things that really matter… and those few things that do matter, they are so very valuable.
We all carry these collections of preciousness. Those moments when everything just slips into place. Those times which justify the rest of our existence.
It doesn’t even make sense to do an accounting. When you are in the middle of the sublime, you can’t quantify it’s value and see if all the hard times were worth it. The quality of the thing is a bit like the time spent.
You could record and calculate how long the hard times were. You could express this in days or weeks or months or years or miliseconds.
But those perfect times? They happen according to God’s schedule, and in God’s time. God’s time is flipped vertically, it doesn’t stretch out, it doesn’t register on our little clocks. Eternity is the collection of all the seconds that will ever be. But it is also potentially within every second, if we spend those seconds in the right ways.
I am painfully aware right now that there are some things which I have never spoken aloud. There are some things which no one ever knows. I am not thinking about great skeletons lurking in my closet. I’m not even thinking of great times of rejoicing. I am thinking of things that are so little, but not unimportant. Things I could hardly put words to.
Sometimes I wish to share my life as if it were a story. Right now, I wish to share a list. It’s not exactly that the members of this list are unconnected. It’s more than they are united through the fact that it is me that has experienced them.
I wish to write for pages and pages and pages, for hours and hours. It would read like a song, it would read like a love letter. I want to tell the world, “There was a time that this happened, and that happenened, and this happened.” I want to tell you that it was good, that the world can be so good.
There is narcisism in there, I know that there is. But at the same time, I want to know your list. I want to know it desperately and intimately. I will begin. Perhaps you’ll be motivated to follow.
There was a time when I lay on the floor of the bedroom of one of my dearest friends in the world. The third member of our trio was there, too. Our heads were touching I think. And the Indigo Girls were playing on the radio.
There was a time when my youngest child wasn’t a day old. And it was snowing on the roof tops. My wife– his mother– was finally asleep.
There was a time when my oldest child was only five. We sat on the front steps of our modest little apartment in Long Beach. We sipped on hot apple ciders with caramel. And we watched the sun go down.
There was a time that the boy closed the book when he finished reading it. It was a Dr. Suess book. He was seventeen. It was the first book he ever read, cover to cover. He was a tough kid, a gang kid. But he closed that book and he smiled at me.
Would you share some of yours? Please? I’ll start. “There was a time…”