I think I've put my finger on one of the most terrible effects of the Fall. I'm sure I'm not the first.
I sense it on a long holiday weekend, when the enjoyment of anticipated rest time is overshadowed by the knowledge that the next day will be a return to routine.
I sense it when I'm sitting in my home library, looking at all my unread books, and all the books I've read but want to re-read, and also the 7 or so I'm currently in the middle of, and find myself paralyzed by the options and by the needling sense that I really only have 20 minutes to sit, and the seconds are ticking even as I peruse the titles. I find myself wondering if it's even worth opening a volume, because by the time I'm engrossed in the subject matter, it will be time to move on to the next task.
I sense it when the glorious quiet of a Friday afternoon has arrived, when Zeke is at school and the girls are down for naps, and an hour's worth of productivity or rest is before us... and yet there is this acute awareness of the seconds passing even as we try to enjoy them, this persistent sense of the finite nature of the moment. With or without interruptions, it often feels like those minutes have passed before we've even had the opportunity to enjoy them.
I sense it when, for whatever reason, I find myself awake in the middle of the night (usually because a child has made an unscheduled visit to our room). I first check the time, let out a deep, relieved breath that there are still hours until dawn, but then immediately start doing the math: "Even if I fall asleep right now, that still only gives me x hours until the alarm goes off..." The next day's weariness sets in right then and there, before the sun has even had the opportunity to rise.
I feel it in the conflicted desires I feel to run screaming and wild with the kids, but also sit with Tara and listen to our records and sip our coffee and talk... but what about the stack of books I want to get through (see above)? And what about all the house stuff that has to get done, that we've been putting off because it isn't urgent? And when are we ever going to clean out the cars and the garage? And what about exercising (pfft!)? There is simply not enough time to do all of these things. Tara and I complain about our energy and productivity levels, and the frustration we experience of wanting to be home and resting on the days when our schedules are exploding, and of feeling productive and motivated on the days when all of our plans are falling through. I desire to sit and write daily, but typically when I have time to actually do some uninterrupted typing, that cursed muse just doesn't want to provide any creative juices. On the other hand, when we're scrambling to get out the door by a certain time, I am chock full of ideas that will all get lost in everyday errand-running and calendar-keeping. Our desires resist our attempts to schedule them.
I sense it during the seasons when I have a full ministry calendar, chocked with great opportunities to preach, study, disciple, and meet with other believers. And yet there's always a home I'm leaving to accomplish these things. I am so energized by worship rehearsals and conferences and weekends away with brothers in Christ, but all of these things represent late nights, travel, and things that keep me from precious time with the kids. Home with my family is my absolute favorite place to be. And yet, I have a privileged calling to serve God's people, and I am truly fulfilled in carrying out that role to the best of my abilities, even if it means sacrificing much time to do so.
I feel it when I consider the places I would love to visit -- Greece, England, Israel, the national parks, etc -- and (cost notwithstanding) realize the unlikelihood that I will ever be able to put my feet on any of those soils and also be a financially responsible adult. Even if we started planning yearly trips now, we will reach but a small fraction of the globe before our lifetime expires.
Maybe all of this strikes you as cushy and simple. Selfish, even. It feels that way to me too. And doubtless, lots of privilege is being exposed here. Maybe it's just the product of getting older or being a parent, or
maybe I've lost my ability to be truly and fully present in any given
moment. Whatever the root cause, I sense such a heaviness around time
passing that I don't remember feeling in years past. And so, I keep coming back to that tired old adage that it's impossible to hold on to the things we want to enjoy, and that by trying to hold onto them so tightly we make it impossible to truly enjoy them. We shouldn't cling to what is meant to be enjoyed in the present. Cake is meant to be eaten, savored even, but consumed soon after the baking -- not stored in a poorly ventilated English basement for 6 decades (see Seinfeld, S9 E18). Display cases keep us from meaningful appreciation, and are ultimately just one more thing to be dusted.
I was also recently reacquainted with the famous journal entry by missionary Jim Elliot, who would give his life in Ecuador for the sake of the gospel: "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose." Jesus' words clearly meant much to this faithful disciple (compare Matt 16.26; Mark 8.36; Luke 9.25; John 12.25). It yields no benefit for a man to lose his soul to gain the whole world, in all of its temporary glory, when surrendering the best this life has to offer is the route taken by those who have entrusted their souls to the Lifegiver for eternal safe-keeping. There is rich and abiding wisdom in differentiating the myriad things we can't keep anyway from the one singular thing that can't be taken: that one thing which we could never do anything to earn, and which is not ours not because of our power to hold it.
Further, there's ancient truth in the realization that God has put eternity into the hearts of His image-bearers (Ecc 3.11). With sin in the picture, that means we will constantly experience the tension between what is eternal and what is transitive, what is passing and what is yet to be. To have both this current minute and to anticipate the next one, but to know from the evidence of the minute past just how fleeting is the present one... This is the problem of being finite. Of being temporary and knowing it. It's the desire to relish each and every grain of sand falling through the hourglass, to pause the flow, to reverse it.
I started by calling this knowledge one of the worst effects of the fall. Other disastrous effects of sin in the world are nothing to diminish. I can't say from experience what carrying a cancer diagnosis or severe bodily impairment is like. I also can't personally describe the depths of loneliness and isolation that have defined the lives of others. For some in these positions, the brevity of time might seem like a blessing, or perhaps their perception of time is that, in the suffering, it slows to an unbearable crawl. When things like grief, sickness, guilt, and fear are all rampant in the fabric of our existence, it's difficult to seriously quantify any other negative experience as being more terrible. And yet, when I consider this subtle undercurrent that gives an inescapable context to all mortal experience, it feels like a heavy, sorrowful thing that manifests in every small moment.
In the end, these persistent things are intended to point our affections and hopes toward New Heavens and New Earth, where moth and rust and time and all other corrosive forces have been permanently barred from touching the Lord's Beloved or anything that is theirs by virtue of the atonement and a new birthright. What peace to know that we stand in the ranks of the redeemed, the unworthy ones elevated to sons and daughters of the Holy King of Righteousness and lifted above the power of the curse! Therefore, instead of the thorn, we may enjoy the myrtle and the cypress, and trade all empty, temporary substitutes for bread and wine and living water that truly satisfy.
Maranatha!