As Time Goes By
Nothing is quite so remarkable as the change that takes place in the autumn. Where just a short time ago we were surrounded by only various shades of green, we are now living in a world of green mixed with jumbled hues of orange and gold and rust. Where just days ago the lawn around the house was a well-vacuumed carpet of grass, it is now, in places, virtually covered over with fallen dried leaves. Only a week or so ago I was sweating in sunny, humid heat near 80 degrees, as my nephew and I cleared brush and trimmed trees. This week we are in a cold snap, with night-time temps hovering around the freezing mark. And tonight we are to have a hard freeze. Meanwhile the fawns who just a short time ago were clothed in their white spots, are now distinguished from their mothers only by their diminutive size. God's nature never stands still; it is always moving, pressing into the next day. Today's tree will be taller tomorrow--or it will be fallen, lying dead and rotting in last year's leaves. Today's grass, luxuriously pliant and green, will tomorrow be brittle and parched, brown and sharp to the touch. The fawn that today accompanies her mother to the salt lick, and frolics with friends in the orchard, will next year be taller and on her own--or she will become a misguided hunter's trophy. Time never stops. Season passes into season, change inevitably comes. As I gaze out my window, beyond the diminished pond, into the trees of the woods that each day put on new clothes--I feel a sense of urgency. What have I done for the Lord today? The days continue to tick by; what am I doing that will yield eternal results? Am I using the time God has given me? The person I pass on the street in town today, will tomorrow be older--or dead. What have I done today so that his tomorrow will be something more than just one more day older? If he is dead, will I have done something to affect his eternity? Will God's kingdom be better, or larger, tomorrow, because of something I've done today? When we are born, God gives each of us a bucketful of days. As time passes, the days drip out, one by one, until the bucket is dry. And only God knows how many days in our bucket remain.Work, for the night is coming,
Under the sunset skies;
While their bright tints are glowing,
Work, for daylight flies.
Work till the last beam fadeth,
Fadeth to shine no more;
Work, while the night is dark'ning,
When man's work is o'er.
(Annie L. Coghill)