A season of time

This 1907 Mission Style eight-day wall clock belonged to my grandparents on my father’s side. It usually keeps time to within one minute between windings. Its deep resounding chimes befriended me on childhood visits to Grandma’s. The clock and its welcome metronome made its way to my parents and when they passed, my siblings graciously allowed me to have it.

Long days filled of playing, exploring and reading highlighted many of my childhood summers at my grandparents. Grandpa, Grandma, and Sissy (my aunt known to those not close friends or family, as Vera) always made room for me, my parents and whichever of my three siblings making the visit.

Begging forgiveness of my sisters and brother if my memory is wrong, but it seems somewhere around the age of nine to eleven, I found myself spending time at Grandma’s with just my grandma and aunt. I guess my sisters were old enough to do their own thing and my brother too young to stay away that long. I’m not sure. They may have even been there with me, but for some reason, Sissy stands out.

Sissy was 33 years older than me. I know that now, but never would have guessed it as a kid. When I was ten, I would have sworn she was 15. She never married and I know now she played a major role in keeping me occupied. I could always count on a board game or a book to read to pass the time. She promoted finding a quiet place away from on-going household activities to read, the clock’s steady ticking and hourly chiming the only sounds. There was, of course, the always-present hum of the box fan, but it soon was indistinguishable from no sound at all.

 Sissy loved to read. Later in life she devoted her days to writing stories of days gone by, many of them published in town newsletters and at least one book. My siblings and I have our own collection of those writings.

I hadn’t planned this, but it seems appropriate I write my maiden post about her. She nurtured my love for reading and desire to write. Even during her last few years, before passing at the young age of 92, she encouraged me to find time to write. That was four years ago and finally here we are.

The rhythmic marking of time echoing throughout my house reminds me of family and the many sights and smells of childhood long gone. Ice cream sandwiches, hot strawberry rhubarb pie, books—two of those three allowed only in limited quantities these days, were staples at Grandma’s house. I’m also reminded that time well-spent is important.

I don’t always spend my time wisely. In fact, truth be known, I’m a self-proclaimed expert at finding ways to do exactly the opposite. Why is that?

Do I not care enough to focus on important things? Do I let unimportant, urgent activities dominate when they shouldn’t? Have I failed to plan adequately, crippling any hope of fitting it all in?

Yes.

Some of all that.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 tells us “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” (English Standard Version). Seasons can be decades, years, months, days, and even minutes. Did you know God has a plan for you? He does and His plan is revealed in your seasons.

Continued reading in Ecclesiastes 3 reveals the writer’s use of contrasting activities to show that sometimes it’s the season for one thing and sometimes the opposite. This continues through verse eight. Then in verse 11, the writer tells us, “He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

When I read this, I come to one conclusion. I’m not in control of what is right and wrong in a given season of life. God is. He made everything beautiful in its time. He determines when I should plant and when I should pluck up what is planted. He determines when I should weep and when I should laugh. I can go on and on.

The only chance I have of aligning with His plan is to spend time with Him. That is my challenge. Setting apart time to commune with God so that the beauty of my season reflects timing of His plan.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were in sync with God? Let’s make that a goal. Join me in searching His heart and spending time with Him as regularly as the ticking of a reliable old clock.