Time Keeps On Slippin' Into the Future

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future.
- Steve Miller Band

As I drove to campus this morning, from out of nowhere this song lyric rose to the surface of my thoughts. It's an obvious observation. Of course time slips into the future. It doesn't slip backward into the past now, does it?

But, friends, I have to ask: does time seem to be slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future more quickly these days? It's October, which means we're in the final leg of a calendar year. And it's late October, to boot. In my mind, the fall semester just started. We're still warming up! But in reality, we're nine weeks deep into classes, and trees are dropping leaves as they pass peak fall foliage, and chilled morning temperatures will soon make jackets essential, not optional. Give us another week or so, and we'll need to proactively pull the ice scrapers from their summertime garage storage and return them to their respective vehicles so we're prepared for the first frosted windshields.

Time keeps on slippin' into the future. The train is leaving the station. Forward ho!

To make sense of things, today I'm taking a moment to pause. This is somewhat of a forced pause, actually. The online course management system for our whole university is down, which means that I currently can't access the pile of work that needs my attention. It's a ceasefire for students and professors alike. Nobody can budge.

I know that work will still be there, patiently waiting, when the system is up and running again. Having lived through plenty of semesters, I also know that the work will get done. It always does.

So, today, during this gap when my work is inaccessible, I reflect on the past few weeks. What have I been doing? I've taught classes, for one. We rented out house for three home football weekends. We've gone to football games, and we've supported our team, despite unprecedented losses and struggles. One non-football weekend, we drove through the countryside, visited a local farm, and worked our way through a corn maze. Another non-football weekend (as fall weekends in a college town always fall into this distinction of home-football game and non-home-football game), I was a vendor at a local upscale flea market, selling beautiful odds and ends in my little curated booth, which felt a little dreamy. 

There's been good living this fall. 

I scroll through the photos on my phone, enjoying visible reminders of other moments: the high school's Homecoming parade and dance, an evening gathering in my basement with friends, small house projects throughout their before-and-after processes, an especially beautiful sunset while taking an evening walk with a neighbor, a clip from a Phil Wickham concert I attended, the progression of leaves intensifying on our sunburst red maple tree, a Young Life gathering of 40+ students in our backyard, a video of my tap dancing instructor as she's demonstrating the steps to our Uptown Funk routine. (Yes, I'm taking a 10-week Thursday night tap dancing class, per the invitation of a friend. No, I am not good at it. Yes, it's still amazing.)

When I pause to reflect, I see where the time has slipped — it's slipped into the little cracks of little moments within little days that, when added up, build the sum of a life.

I just checked, and the university's course management system is still down. I suppose I'll pause a little longer, adding today's moments of reflection and appreciation to the sum total. 

The Earth Will Be Filled

Over the past week, I've been meditating on a verse from the Old Testament book of Habakkuk which offers a promise. An amazing promise. It's a promise to consider when we're especially world-weary and discouraged, a promise to cling to when everything feels profoundly broken and desperate. 

Habakkuk 2:14 states this: For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.  

Just think: one day the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord. Even when people rail against the Lord, even when wickedness seems to prevail, even when foundations are shaken and the world calls what is right wrong and what is wrong right, even when our hearts break, we who have put our hope in Jesus Christ know that He is faithful. He is good. He is kind and patient, not wanting any to perish but for all to come to repentance. His ultimate desire, put in motion the moment when sin separated God and man, was to fulfill the world's greatest rescue mission where He died in our places so we would not have to live without Him.  

It's an exchange that makes no sense, yet it's the foundation of the Gospel: Christ died once for all, then He rose again, conquering sin and the grave. When we accept this, and when we confess with our mouths that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts that God raised him from the dead, we are saved. He took our sin, and we receive His righteousness. We are forgiven.

We can choose to believe Jesus, and our lives — and our eternity — will never be the same. 

One day, the earth will be absolutely filled with this knowledge as waters cover the sea. Everyone will see the Lord as He is. They all will know, and every knee will bow.

So Long, Summer

This summer rolled out in phases. First came my teaching phase, which nipped at the heels of the spring semester, when I taught two classes over an expedited six-week summer semester. I survived this phase, but already have little recollection of it. Next came the visiting phase, when my parents came north to escape their Florida heat and spend time with us in central Pennsylvania. This was followed by the phase of planning our annual neighborhood garage sale, then a phase of intensive yard work when we mulched and trimmed bushes and repaired our old fence. Most recently was the phase when I prepared for the fall semester.

Given that today was the first day of classes at the university and the local high school starts tomorrow, we safely can say so long to summer. It was a good ride. In the midst sunshine and sunscreen, humidity and the background song of cicadas, our kids had summer adventures of their own: a first internship in Pittsburgh for our oldest daughter, a school choir trip to Italy for our middle, and a week at Young Life Camp for our youngest. Everyone, it seemed, was doing something.

My something was taking a late July trip to Maine to visit my dear friend. While only five days, including the days devoted to driving there and back, it undoubtedly was the most memorable phase of summer.

Maine is worth the hype. So is spending time with a good friend. So this trip, which combined a long-awaited reunion and the beauty of Maine, already was destined for greatness in my mind before it came to pass. My friend asked if I would want to visit the coastal of town of Camden and take a scooter ride. I said I did.

Then, I realized that I had misunderstood her -- she had proposed we take a schooner ride, which is even better than a scooter ride. Mind you, I was entirely down for scootering around Camden, but sailing for two hours on the Penobscot Bay in a gorgeous schooner was phenomenal.

When we docked, I felt vastly better about life. Such is the power of sailing, I suppose.

We toured the University of Maine campus where she works. We strolled the otherworldly Orono bog boardwalk. We visited quaint shops and tasted homemade Maine maple syrup. We enjoyed skipping rocks, even if mostly unsuccessful in our attempts, and eating ice cream at Bar Harbor. We capped off our time by exploring Acadia National Park, which might be one of the most beautiful locations I've ever laid eyes on. While overlooking the ocean from a bluff, I was surprised to discover tears in my eyes, not from sadness, but simply due to an overwhelm of awe.

So now, as I officially say so long to summer and hello to fall, which is beautiful in its own right, I take this moment to reflect on the main event of summer: a truly special time in Maine.

56 Hours By Myself in My House

Last week while I was teaching the final week of my summer classes, most of my family was on vacation. Kramer Family Beach Week has been going on with my husband's side of the family forever, or at least it seems like forever because it started when our kids were babies. I've been to every one of these trips — if not for the whole week, then at least for a day or two — with the exception of this year. The semester's end simply didn't line up. Our middle child couldn't attend Beach Week, either, because she had a school choir trip overlapping later in the week, so being home also meant that I could send her off well. 

I hugged and dropped her off at the school early Thursday morning. The rest of the family would be returning from the beach on Saturday afternoon. In between, I had roughly 56 hours (minus the hours when I was on campus teaching) in my own house, by myself. 

Do I remember the last time when I had 56 hours by myself in my house? No, I do not. This is because I haven't had 56 hours at home by myself for 20 years. It felt perfectly natural and entirely unnatural all at once.

It was so quiet. It was so clean. I cannot overstate this last point: IT WAS SO CLEAN. For 56 hours everything was in its place, and nothing was out of place, and if something was out of place it's because I was the one who had been using it; therefore, everything's whereabouts still made perfect sense to me. 

Mealtimes were a breeze. I was in 100% agreement with myself at all times about what to eat and when to eat it. Did I cook? No, I foraged through the refrigerator and assembled meals: 7 baby carrots and hummus, a slice or two of chicken lunch meat, a piece of cheese, some blueberries, a pickle. (I've done this with kids home too, of course, but then I call it charcuterie to convince them it's something intentional.)

When I finished my grading each day — it was, frankly, a bit of a bummer to be actively employed while living out my Home Alone fantasies — I'd shower, get ready for bed, then watch TV. What did I watch? Doesn't matter. What matters is that I held the remote control. Apparently, I don't do this often, because I barely knew how to work the thing. Input HDMI 1? Sure, that sounds fine.

Sometimes I wandered room to room, looking over the house as if it were a vast empire. I played my music loudly. The computer chair remained pushed in when not in use. No shoes were piled at the garage door. No kids turned on the shower right was I was headed upstairs to take a shower. Space and time — two currencies that often seem in short supply — felt abundant.

On Saturday afternoon, I sat at the dining room table with my laptop, plugging in final grades for my two classes. It's the culmination of any semester to hit "submit" on final grades, especially during this expedited summer session that aggressively crams 15 weeks into 6 weeks, with those 6 weeks starting when you're still tired after the regular academic year. 

I saw the "grades submitted" popup flash in the upper right hand corner of my screen. It is finished, I thought, as I tapped my papers into a neat pile to file away. Mid-paper-organizing, a mere 30 seconds after hitting "submit" and before I could even take a deep breath, I heard a sound that I had grown unaccustomed to hearing in just 56 hours.

It was the garage door opener. The beachgoers were back from the beach.

So much came through the door at once: people, voices, bags, a suitcase, a Sam's Club-sized box of leftover individually packaged assorted Sun Chips, beach towels that somehow were still damp, leftover sunscreen sprays and bottles, a stack of napkins from a fast food joint from the ride home. I walked down the hallway and tripped over shoes that hadn't been there a minute ago. 

All back to normal.