We’re surrounded by clocks at our house. They help us keep track of where we are in our daily schedules, and they remind us how much there is still to be done. They also keep us on our toes, because while some clocks keep perfect time, some not so much.
We have three antique clocks, each with its own peculiarities. The oldest, a mid-19th century portico clock, keeps great time but something happened and the chimes don’t stay in sync. We have it in our bedroom, and if I woke in the night I could count the gentle “tings” and know how much more time I had to sleep. Now, chiming 10:00 when it’s only 3:00 isn’t any help.
On the other hand, the clock in the dining room, a Gilbert mantle clock from the 1920s, falls behind timewise but chimes perfectly. It’s loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the house and get an approximate reading on the correct time. A small clock from the 1890s in the bathroom doesn’t chime and is inconsistent, but it’s the right size for the room and perhaps saves us from dropping our cell phones in the sink.
Our most accurate clocks are in the kitchen on the stoves and microwave, which is good because LeAnn loves to cook and bake, and she needs dependable clocks and timers for that. On the other hand, the digital clocks on the thermostats, garage door opener and sprinkler system tend to gradually fall behind. We don’t need them to be precise, so they usually get reset twice a year during the seasonal time changes. Otherwise you can waste a lot time keeping all the clocks ticking together.
All of us are surrounded by clocks outside our home too: on our car dashboards, in hospital and automotive waiting rooms, in school classrooms and courtrooms, at transit stations and on stadium scoreboards. They let us know how early or late we’ll be for the next appointment, how long we’ve been waiting for good or bad news, and how much time we have left to try and turn things around.
One of my favorite clocks is not a clock at all, but the chiming of the hour from the organ at Wilshire on Sunday mornings. I find it calming as it calls us to silence, prayer and meditation. In contrast, I was sitting at my mother’s church a few weeks ago when the start of worship was signaled with a flash of light and music. I have a low startle threshold, and the sudden sensory stimulation triggered an involuntary “whoop” from me, which made LeAnn laugh and others stare.
The truth is that even with all our time-telling devices, we only pretend to know what time it is. We can know the time of day but not where the day is on the spectrum of eternity. God has his own time, and that’s a well-kept secret. Or as Paul Simon sings in “Slip Slidin’ Away,”: “God only knows, God makes his plans, the information’s unavailable to the mortal man.”
And speaking of “slip sliding,” let’s not forget our body clocks that control our daily rhythms of eating, sleeping, working and resting and ultimately are tied into our current age. We are all potentially winding down with every passing day, and the best we can do is keep our inner works in good condition through healthy diet, exercise, practices and behaviors.
I say this in the aftermath of the recent passing of two dear Wilshire members. One was not unexpected given her 100-plus years, but the other had more years to share with us, or that’s what we thought. We don’t know, and we don’t get to choose. We just have to live every day given to us and make the most of it, even if we don’t feel up to it.
I recently rediscovered a song by Dan Fogelberg, “To the Morning.” It’s soft and gentle like a lullaby, but it’s a song for rubbing your eyes and getting up, with this chorus:
“And it’s going to be a day
There is really no way to say no
To the morning
Yes, it’s going to be a day
And there is really nothing left to say
But, “Come on morning.”
It’s a reminder that each new day is a blessing to be accepted and dealt with until we have no more days. Fogelberg, who recorded the song at age 21, died at age 56. That was way too early, but the way his songs still touch my soul is proof he made the most of his time.
Oh, that we could do the same.