Journal for Christa—
Just as most people I know, it always seems as though I need a little more time. What is it about time? I always want more. I think it’s a selfish desire, really—more time to work, more time to play, more time to get so little done.
I want more time when some people have so little, like the child from Joy’s old school who died in a senseless accident last week—only a kindergartener—with so little time.
Whether surging on at break-neck speed or passing a day in leisure, I always want just a little more time. And why? Why should I get more time?
Maybe time moves so fast to me because I’m old. Sometimes I think it moves so fast because I’m comfortable.
How long is a day for a child who’s hungry? How long for a man or woman in despair? How long for the lonely or those in pain?
Yet, how many nights do I go to bed and not even know where the day has gone? I live like a machine, and I fear that’s the true legacy I’m passing on to the people I influence.
Time—or the desire for more of it—is the idol. Some days it rules my soul. But, not today. Today I refuse to be a machine. Today, I’ll live.