I just finished Mitch Albom's novel, The Time Keeper. I had loved Tuesdays with Morrie and The Five People You Meet in Heaven. This latest novel was no disappointment.
The irony is that I read the book because I had time on my hands. A week ago I sprained my back, and I've spent seven days lying down, reclining, and occasionally sitting. I've iced my back more than a polar bear in winter. Albom's book provided some necessary comfort for my boredom. And plenty of food for thought.
According to the author, this is a story about the meaning of time. The main character, Nor, is the father of time. Yet he regrets his discovery. He observes that people fill every waking minute with action, but they are empty. There's always more to do and never enough time to do it in! Once we have a sense of passing time, the simple joy of living between sunrises is gone.
I've been there. Haven't you? I've measured my days by what I accomplished in 12 hours, as though efficiency were the standard of well-used time. Albom puts these words in Dor's mouth: "When you are measuring life, you are not living it."
So why did God limit our days? Albom concludes: "To make each one precious." With endless time, nothing is special. The psalmist asked God, "Teach us to number our days." In other words, hold each day as sacred and a gift. My last seven days have been unproductive but nonetheless a treasure. God's good gift of healing takes time.
Solomon said there is a time for everything under heaven. Albom restates the proverb: "It is never too late or too soon. It is when it is supposed to be."
That's so true. Haven't you wished for something forever, then when it came, you knew the timing was perfect?
St. John described a place where time shall be no more. Until then, I'll live between the ditches of measuring my time, yet knowing it's never too late or too soon.
