The Time We Have Left
March 16, 2010
photo by photobucket.com
When I was ten, I thought the worst thing about being a kid was that wisdom was slow and intermittent. It stuttered along with my growth—fast at times, then slow, and then not at all for a good long while.
It didn’t bother me, really. Most of the time. But other times it did. Adults knew things. Not just things like how to drive and how to play a guitar, but things like what you should do and how you should live. Things I didn’t know at the time. Not even a little bit.
That, more than anything else, is why I couldn’t wait to grow up. It wasn’t the freedom I wanted, not the thought of never having to go to school and staying up as late as I wanted. It was the fact that I would know things. Important things. Things that mattered.
The great illusion of life is that answers always lay ahead. It’s a promise we speak aloud and believe that by doing so we can speak into truth. Tomorrow or next month or ten years from now, we’ll know. And that’s just not the case. So much of life is wrapped up in questions that will always remain questions. I doubt we’ll ever know exactly why there must be evil in the world or why bad things happen to good people or why the rain must fall on the just. But at certain points we still find a sort of false security in the assumption that age and experience will shed a little light into the dark room of our doubts.
Don’t get me wrong. Time and experience will most certainly help accomplish that. But with me, it often seems that the more I find out about this world the more questions I ask. Which makes me believe that life is nothing but a giant, looping episode of Lost.
And I do know more now at thirty-seven than I did at ten. Much more. I know how to drive. I don’t know how to play a guitar, but I know I could learn to if I really wanted. I know what I should do and how I should live. I also know that knowing what to do and how to live is a lot easier than actually doing it.
Yes, age and experience can bring wisdom. “The silver-haired head is a crown of glory,” the Proverb states. A badge of honor. A symbol that announces to the world that you’ve lived long enough to have a handle on things, however tenuous.
I was thinking about all of this three weeks ago while listening to a father speak of his ten-year-old boy, who’d just returned from another round of chemotherapy. The doctors expected much pain, many side effects, and mixed results. We sat there, his father and I, both awed at wisdom his young son possessed. Wisdom far beyond what I carried around inside of me.
Wisdom that said whatever was happening to his body couldn’t happen to his heart. He could still love and be loved.
Wisdom that said there were things you can control and things you couldn’t, and it was by paying more attention to the things you could that made all the difference in whether your life was good or bad.
Wisdom that said regardless of how you felt or what was happening, there was enough joy and beauty and peace in this world to get you through.
“He’s more right now than I’ll ever be,” his father told me.
That’s true. His son is more than most will ever be. Myself included. Whether that’s because of his disease or in spite of it, I do not know. Maybe both. Maybe neither. But I know this—that boy faces a window to the world that few ever get the opportunity to look through, and he’s taking it all in.
And I know this, too: age and experience may indeed bring the knowledge of truth, but not always. Sometimes wisdom doesn’t come by the time you’ve had. Sometimes it comes by the time you have left.
Today is the second part of my interview with Linda Yezak of AuthorCulture. If you’d like to see more, please click here.
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19 Responses to “The Time We Have Left”
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I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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Growing up, I thought in terms of “filling in the holes” of what I knew. Something else happened along the way, though — the holes got bigger. Good post.
Your writing is like a very good sermon. Today especially, I felt like God was speaking directly to me through this post. Thank you.
My mom, who died March 3 after a 29-year battle with breast cancer, was more than I’ll ever be, either. And I’m OK with that.
I want my time to be His time, all the time I have left.
This is so right on time in my life Billy, as my husband and I look to long term missions work.
Thank you for listening to His gentle urges as you write.
These words are very refreshing to this weary heart…..
I’ve struggled with the “great illusion of life is that answers always lay ahead”….but as life still presents the unanswered “whys”…..I find myself digging deeper into my faith and learning to trust more and more in Him each day.
great post.
What an AMAZING post…I will carry this one with me for quite some time. As I’ve journeyed, thus far, in my faith…I have learned, “For all the questions we have for God…He has questions for us, too.” In our moments where our troubles and trials demand answers (wisdom), we need look no further that the book of Job in the Bible…when God answered Job from the whirlwind. In the face of God, we are humbled and brought down to size. We are nothing but clay in His hands…and that’s the best place to be.
God bless you brother…hope you are continuing to recover well from your fall and the snow is melting away.
Cherie
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We deal with the “time we have left” on a daily basis here. This was very touching.
How I love this post.
It wrapped itself around my heart and now won’t let go. Beautiful truth.
I am nearly 50. I have never been able to feel about myself and my life the kind of certainty I thought would come with age. Now I know it is not coming. Ever.
But I also know God. I know him in the way I always longed to, and somehow that matters more than all the rest. My peace and my certainty lie in a person, not in understanding everything.
That this would feel shaky and nebulous is part of being fallen. (It still does sometimes) Why is it that we think trusting a person is tenuous at best — even when that person is Jesus? Because we have been broken in our ability to trust God. What is the most certain of all feels flimsy and untrustworthy to us.
I grieve, for myself, for all of us. As I age, I have realized with greater depth and poignancy what we have lost. It is here in your post — that we feel we must know, and in that knowing, we think we will find our way. But that is not our way and that is not how we will find it.
Our way is a person. It always has been.
” I am the way and the truth and the life.” (the Gospel of John)
I keep hoping that at some allusive age I’ll feel like a grown up and have wisdom, confidence and security. So, you’re telling me that’s not going to magically happen when I turn 30 next month?
One of my son’s best friends when he and she were growing up was beautiful child with a head of ringlets who had cancer. She smiled through it all, even when the chemo left her bald. She was so determined to make something of the time she was given, because she knew it was so limited. She gave us such a gift. I still have one of the last photos taken of her.
Love this – the last two paragraphs are packed!
We don’t like to admit it or face it sometimes, but suffering produces that opportunity. Some people choose to wither under it and others rise to the occasion, but it’s always our choice. Jesus learned obedience through suffering. How we deal with it (preferably like this little boy is doing–with grace and love) will determine what we get out of it. There is much to be gained…
The word that comes to mind is perspective.
It is a good post. Time is short, and none of us knows how much time we have left. So important to make the most of each day.
We recently went through a devastating loss in our neighborhood and in our church family. Our friends’ precious 5 year old boy died of neuroblastoma…a type of cancer.
Do I understand it? No. Will I ever understand it? Not on this side of heaven. Did I learn something in spite of it? Yes. I have learned from that precious little boy to make every moment count, to face fear head-on, and to live each day with enthusiasm and joy…even in the midst of great pain and suffering.
He was just a little boy, but he was one of the wisest people I know.
Great post, Billy.
Billy, Billy, Billy… you did it again… never let down here! absolutely inspiring!
So eloquent, Billy. I really was touched by the last two paragraphs… wow!
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