Hourglass

A few days ago, I overheard a conversation at work.  Two people were talking in the break room, and one woman was describing a painful incident from her past, and how over time, things had become more and more distant and difficult between her and the other person involved.  She talked about how she felt even more hurt, more angry, as the situation wore on.  "Time doesn't make things better like people say," she said to her listener.  "It just makes things worse."

I wondered if she was right.  Conventional wisdom tells us that time heals.  Time gives everyone the chance to cool off, calm down, think again.  Time brings maturity, growth, and change.  However, we all know of situations in which, over time, resentments fester, bitterness grows, hurts deepen, distances widen, and hearts harden.  What makes the difference between a story where time brings healing, and one where time brings only more hurt?  I might be wrong, but I'd like to propose a theory--time does what we tell it to do.

If this is true, that makes how we use our time a rather heavy responsibility.  It seems that the way we choose to use our time will determine what that time does for us in return.  If we use it for things that promote growth, healing, reconciliation, then it will do what we ask.  But if we waste it, squander it, or use it badly, in ways that promote bitterness and hurt, then it will turn ugly, just as we have requested, recalcitrant and hostile, and bring us nothing but pain.  This idea reminds me forcibly of the bewildering story the Mad Hatter tells to Alice at his tea party, about why time will no longer do anything he asks, due to a badly-sung rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat.  ("He's murdering the time!" shouts the Queen, "Off with his head!")

Last week, I asked my 14-year-old, "So, how are you feeling with the holidays coming up?"  He replied, "I don't know.  I haven't thought about it.  Why?"  I said, "Well, this time last year, you were feeling a little stressed.  As though you didn't know what was going to happen."  (If you missed last year's version of this conversation, you can catch it here.)  He looked thoughtful for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Huh.  Well, I'm a different person this year."

And so he is.

To me, what does this mean about the way we are using our time, and what time is doing for us in return?

I believe it means we are defining our new normal.  We are making time to cook together, read together, camp out in the living room together.  We are making memories that we can hold to and cherish when things are rough, which they often are.  We are talking, talking, talking, about what to do, and what to do differently, when things go wrong.  We're going out to that special-release movie, or that once-in-a-lifetime concert, because life is too short, and our time together will pass so quickly.  We're tackling projects that are out of our comfort zone, building our team--sharing responsibility for the things we share ownership for.  And we have every intention of continuing.  We will gather on a Sunday with friends we love, and be just as happy and thankful as on that arbitrary Thursday designated by the calendar, on which we will celebrate together with extended family and apart from each other.  We will start new traditions.  We will continue to learn to be the family we want to create.  We will look to the future with hope and expectation.

We're using our time well.  And time is doing oh, so much for us in return.  We're all different people this year, I think.