I don’t know exactly why I stood and stared up at the clock at Union Station.
And found it to be so magical.
So filled with beauty and elegance. Dignity and strength.
But when I arrived at the very busy hub of humanity with the cavernous sense of wide openness mixed with a stirred up bunch of folks from everywhere, I slipped into a trance.
Almost like stirring up a wasp’s nest these travelers rush in and out, on a mission which is their life. On missions which are their lives.
And we were rushing, my group of four. We had so little time. Trying to see D.C. in hours. No way to do it justice. To invest in her beauty. But Time was not to be negotiated with. There was no stretching or extending or borrowing.
But now that I am home and I have time to process, to think back on almost a split second or two of hurriedly passing through Union Station, I have more clarity.
On why I wanted to stand and stare. The marbled elegance drew me in. Her architecture was strong and noble and proud.
But the picture I was determined to snap on the run tells me a story even now days later.
It speaks to me of the delicate nature of holding on to the minutes and moments which are our very days. Of capturing the seconds that tick past. Of holding hard to the time that we have. Cherishing and relishing the all of them.
When I study the photograph I have a sense of calm at the big strong clock face and the steel hands. They seem bold and sure. They have confidence in their telling of the exact time. And I now know exactly when I was there. They are marked these minutes and moments when I was rushing through the station.
They tell me when I stopped and clicked and when I was in awe of her telling. Her showing me time.
I now wrestle with her, with Time.
Where to invest mine. Where to pour into what He gives me.
How to use my gifts with the Time I have left. When to go and when to stop. How to say yes and when to say no. She looks a little different to me now, Time.
He increases my awareness of the moments and minutes and days. Each measurement of a day is placed under the magnifying glass now. They look bigger and grander. They are more important than even before. The magnifying glass is a gift with which to see. And to gauge. And then measure.
I am a steward of these grains, these particles, these fleeting fleeing moments of time which are my life.
My stewardship of His precious gift is important. The spending of it. The holding of it. And the loosing of it. The releasing it back to Him. The investing for Him. The seeking ways to serve Him.
I will not kill it, or hoard it. Time. I will not waste it. But rather I will seek to spend it wisely. To use it well. But in my own strength and with my own power I am powerless to steward well. It is only in seeking His strength and His wisdom that I can hope for even an ounce of discernment with which to spend it rightly.
So I seek Him to guide. Look to Him to lead. Ask Him to show what to do with the gift He has given. This one of my life, my time, my constantly shaping story.
I have come back home to a problem which weighs heavy on my soul. It wants to joy-rob and time-steal. It seeks to take my eyes off of investing in the beautiful.
So I release it back to the Giver of all Good Gifts. And lay it down. Seeking His Mercy and His Wisdom. Asking Him to help number and order my days in a way that brings Him glory.
And I do not think He would mind, not even one little bit, if I dreamed of going back to Union Station to stand in awe. To rest. To stare. To wonder in amazement at the big bold beautiful representation of Time there mounted nobly on the wall.
Looking out and looking forth.
She looks like a picture of Time and she looks beautiful to me.