Sabbath Thoughts, Sunday

Moments

”I’ve never seen her cry,” my sweet little friend said as she looked out of the window. I patted her hand because there were no comfort words, no make it all better words in the hospice parking lot.

“I guess we all have our moments,” she whispered.

The Spirit’s pull keeps me thinking. What’s really in a moment? Is there any value or worth in the single ticking of the second hand? After all it’s just a second, and there are over 86 thousand in a day.

If I’m honest, I have missed more than I remember. There are a few I would like to save, and several I never want to live again. Each moment like a brick stacked and mortared in the making of a home.

I remember the cousins who came to brick our house. Hardy, strong men followed their father’s orders to mix mud and bring bricks. One by one the father and oldest son laid them.

I was surprised by his rebuke when a section below was pushed out of place by the younger brother’s foot. As the father expertly repaired the mishap I remember thinking, Why all the fuss? You fixed it and no one will ever notice. But my cousin knew something I didn’t.

No matter how perfectly you realign the bricks, the mortar won’t match perfectly. There will always be a sign of mishap and repair. Even today, after two decades it looks slightly different. Something you would only notice if I point you to it. Yet the structure is sound and solid. The mishap didn’t cause crack or crumbling.  The wall still stands.

Is my heart the same? Is it possible every single moment a brick in the home He’s creating in me?

Let me tell you there are bricks I never would have chosen, and ones I would like to forget. Mishaps along the way have left me feeling out of kilter, and I’m not sure they amount to much of a home.

And yet, God keeps building. Moment upon moment He places each in the perfect spot, expertly breaks some at exactly the right length. Just when I think the damage below is beyond repair, the Mason realigns what has been pushed out of place.

Ancient words echo,

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

This is a hard accepting.

Moments aren’t for grabbing in an attempt to never miss one. Nor is there one in the future to work for all my days. Because it takes every single moment to make a heart His home.

The good and bad, those that make me painfully angry, and those bringing tears of joy. All I consider lost are never lost, and moments I’m afraid will never return are there in the building of me.

My little friend was right. We all have our moments.

And it’s not what I do with them that matters, it’s what God does with them that makes all the difference.

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