Journaled Time

I cannot, or even, claim to know any part of the mind of God or the particular reason he acts how he does and bring what he brings.

            I do know, however, that he is about his own glory (which coincides with my good) and therefore when he does things they are done in paramount necessity and perfect will and timing.

            But that jut it, time.

            Bound so closely to our bonds; woven so inextricably to our hearts; and tied, so very neatly, to our lives. Time is the subtle (at times screaming) reminder that, “We are not as we once were.”

            Time, this slow unstoppable march to our ends from our beginnings making our middles the adventure (and making them flutter with butterflies), when closing our eyes is the worst possible sin.

            For in so doing, we’ll miss it, whatever it is, and relegate our stories to the obituaries and not the feature.

            I don’t not think this is how life ought to be lived, in a half-hearted fashion, no, for what little time we have here we must, because Christ is our King, take hold of all of life and use every small bit for the glory, the same glory God is after, the glory of God.

            Therein is life.

(The picture is of art at Wichita's Final Friday.)