Archive for the ‘Time’ Category
Enough for Today
Matthew 6:11 NRSV “Give us today our daily bread.”
By then, time had lost its markers.
Days were no longer distinguished by plans or progress, only by light and dark. Morning arrived without promise. Night came without relief. The body existed inside a narrow range of possibility, and even that had to be negotiated.
Breathing took effort. Sitting up required calculation. Food was no longer something to enjoy, only something to attempt. A few spoonfuls of broth were an achievement. Not a metaphor. An achievement.
This was not the moment for courage or clarity. It was the long middle, where survival does not feel noble and faith is reduced to what can be managed. The body learned to ask a smaller question.
Not How will this end?
But What is possible now?
Scripture knows this reduction. “Daily bread” is not abundance. It is enough. Enough to remain. Enough to get through the next hour without collapse. Enough to keep the body tethered to the day.
In that room, far from home, nothing was resolved. No meaning announced itself. There was only the discipline of accepting what could be received and refusing what could not. Rest when rest was required. Effort when effort was possible. Waiting without a clock.
This is not resignation.
It is endurance.
Faith, in such moments, does not look upward. It stays close to the body. It learns the measure of what can be held and does not ask for more.
Enough for today had to be enough.
Prayer
God, help me trust that what is enough today is enough.
February 1 Is Not a Sacrament. Every Moment Is.
February 1, 2026
When I wrote the date this morning, the thought came uninvited: I made it.
A date without weight, really—only the first day of a month we agree to call new. Nothing turned. Nothing reset. Time itself remained unmoved.
Time, as I know it, is not a doorway. It is a point. A single place on a long—perhaps endless—line. Not the past, which memory keeps revisiting. Not the future, which imagination rehearses. Just this narrow location where I am allowed to stand.
Yesterday was a hard day.
That may be why the thought lingered. Not because the calendar advanced, but because I am still here. Still breathing. Still present at this point on the line.
I didn’t make it there.
I made it here.
And here is different.
February 1 is not a sacrament.
But this moment is.
Time Travel
On the strange elasticity of years and the tenderness of realizing how swiftly they pass.
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A child sits on the floor, lost among his toys.
His mother says, It’s time to go now. Put them away.
In his imagination he is already moving—
tidying, obeying, swift as thought.
But to her eyes nothing has changed.
Seconds pass. The command comes again, sharper this time.
And when she scolds him for not listening,
he is bewildered.
How could she not see?
He had begun the instant she asked.
A child does not measure time.
He lives inside it like a fish in water,
the current invisible, infinite.
An adult measures it out—seconds, minutes, hours—
a metronome against which patience ticks and love frays.
Between them lies not disobedience,
but two different kinds of existence.
And then, one day, the parent grows older.
The tempo steadies, then slips.
Days become weeks, weeks turn to months.
The seasons collapse into one another
like pages turning too quickly to read.
He watches grandchildren at play
and says the thing the young never believe:
Enjoy this while you can. These days will be gone before you know it.
For this too is a kind of time travel—
to stand in one moment and remember another,
to scold the child you once were,
and to hear yourself answer back
from somewhere deep in the years.
And when at last you understand
how swiftly it all has gone,
you smile—
not for joy exactly,
but for the tenderness of knowing
you were there,
and it was enough.
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Reflection:
We never meant to become travelers in time; it happened while we were looking away. Yet somehow love leaves footprints in both directions, marking where we stood when it still felt like forever.
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On a whim... 