The Weight of Time

Both my grandparents and aunt & uncle own next door trailers on a small fishing lake, near Terre Haute, Ind. My mom & stepdad bought my grandparents trailer last fall, so we all decided to go down there over Memorial Day weekend. Though we've been eating fish out of that lake for almost 20 years, this was the first time in probably over 5 years that almost all our family has been down there at the same time: parents, siblings, aunt & uncle, cousins - just not our grandparents or one other cousin this time.

Caught almost a dozen fish over the weekend, most keepers, and I'll go ahead and brag - a bass that was the biggest caught over the weekend. Baylee and I went on her first boat ride and she helped me fish some. She fearlessly held both a worm and a fish. We all stayed up around the fire till past midnight talking & laughing, and also partook in the family tradition of playing Phase 10.

Tuesday before we left I was on the dock with Baylee for a last time. While basking in how much fun the weekend had been and also reminicing of other times standing on the same dock, a real weight came on me: the weight of time. I didn't realize how heavy something could be that you can't hold in your hand.

The weight of the past. All of my memories of the trailer are positive and special, and they bring me immense joy thinking about them. But what was heavy to me is what is obvious: I can't relive many of them. Sure I can still fish down there again...but never again with my grandpa. I dropped my glasses in the lake this past weekend...but it wasn't the same hilarious family experience as when my grandpa did it years ago. It's the same when you're remembering life after you see high school, college, or old church friends on Facebook. How many times in our lives have we been in a moment with friends or family and thought, "I hope this moment never ends." Yeah, they all did. You just can't TIVO the past, rewind & relive...and knowing that to be true doesn't mean it doesn't suck any less.

The weight of the future. Driving home up 41, sharing with Jeannette about being on the dock with Baylee, we started talking about the future as well. We'll be 50 when Baylee is 18, 60 when she's 28. I want more time with her than that! Only God knows if we'll even have that much time with her. It's a pretty heavy thought to wonder if someday you'll get to hold your 2 year old's 2 year old.

All this heaviness wasn't/shouldn't be about saddness, for me it was about necessary clarity.

I've been waking up earlier these last couple days to get to my work and get it done, so I can be home a little earlier. A two year old who doesn't want to go to bed hasn't been that big of a deal. Still frustrating, but a frustration that I know I need to cherish.

Like pressure on coal to make a diamond, the weight of the past & future give the necesary focus needed for the present.

From a drive I had late at night last week, the below Chris Rice song has been stuck in my head. Didn't know I'd be grasping it's message over Memorial Day weekend, as it pretty much encompasses what hit me on the dock standing there with Baylee:

Life Means So Much:
Everyday is a journal page
Every man holds a quill and ink
And there’s plenty of room for writing in
All we do and believe and think
So will you compose a curse
Or will today bring the blessings
Fill the page with rhyming verse
Or some random sketchings

Teach us to count the days
Teach us to make the days count
Lead us in better ways
Somehow our souls forgot
Life means so much
Life means so much
Life means so much

Everyday is a bank account
And time is our currency
So no one’s rich, nobody’s poor
We get twenty-four hours each
So how are you gonna spend
Will you invest or squander
Try to get ahead
Or help someone who’s under

Has anybody lived who knew the value of a life?
And don’t you think giving his own
Would prove the worth of yours and mine?

Teach us to count the days
Teach us to make the days count
Lead us in better ways
Somehow our souls forgot
Life means so much
Life means so much
Life means so much