This is a conversation I had over lunch yesterday, with a friend and Keepa’ninny. Our discussion wasn’t quite so well-worded, though, as this “sermonette” delivered by Richard L. Evans, on the broadcast of Music and the Spoken Word, November 7, 1948:
This Passing Time
As we go about living our lives from day to day and from year to year, the passing of time is mechanically marked off by clocks and chronometers and calendars.
But time means much more than a mere mechanical measure. It is the dimension within which we now live. And its passing moves us through many changing patterns – some of which we understand and some of which are deeply perplexing.
Gradually, yet so quickly do we grow older, that while we feel ourselves to be still young, we may come to be looked upon as being old in the eyes of those whoa re yet younger. In youth, we look far ahead and dream great dreams, and while we still suppose we have our youth, there are others yet more youthful who begin to number us with those who have left youth behind.
So quickly do we move through these paradoxical scenes, so quickly and yet so gradually do we pass from youth to age, that, when we begin to realize the leisure with which some of us made vital decisions, the unconcern with which some of us postponed our preparation, the thought is somehow frightening – and suddenly we become aware that there are none so young but what it is time for them to begin to prepare for life – and none so old but what they must live in readiness for whatever eventualities there are.
There come to mind these dramatic words from the Psalms: “Remember how short my time is” – which might well be a constant reminder from age to youth, and from youth to age. There are other impelling phrases that also have an echo of urgency about them: “Therefore be ye also ready: … of that day and hour knoweth no man.” “Behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors.”
And after this life, then what? Well, there will always be a future – a future that will always have its own work to be done. But here and now we can’t afford to linger too long before we begin to do the things we would like to do, and the things we ought to do.