My Departed Hours--Where Are They?

The weeks seem only hours, they go so swiftly. “My departed hours _ where are they?” ¹ _ the poet asked in anguish. And when we look at what we do with passing days, the lost times, the in-between times, we wonder at the time we waste away _ sometimes looking at or listening to what isn’t worth the time it takes; sometimes reading what isn’t worth the time it takes; sometimes reading what isn’t worth the paper it is printed on; sometimes thoughts that never should have been thought or put into print.

“What is time?” asked Longfellow. “The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand…? These are but…outward signs,…Time is the Life of the soul.” ² Time, life, choice: these are the very essence of all we are, or shall be _ ever.

And perhaps we ought to make our time-and-motion studies in our own personal pursuits, and note the difference between moving forward and merely going through motions; and not so much needlessly do the same things over and over again: such as sometimes shifting and reshuffling the same pile of papers and putting them in different places, without really clearing up the clutter; sometimes doing essentially the same with problems _ worrying and re-worrying about the same ones without doing what can or should be done; sometimes wrestling with the same habits, the same appetites, the same troubled conscience, without really repenting or improving or really learning our lessons.

With time moving, life passing, just going through motions is not enough. There are some things we ought to be doing now, or ought already to have done. Oh, may we have the wisdom to use the little time, the precious time, to do what should be done, to learn what should be learned, to live as we should live: repenting, improving, performing, with a sense of peace and purpose _ not just rearranging problems _ not just rushing around.