The Years Say What The Days Never Knew

To relax is critical to our health. Whatever it is that helps us relax is where we must often retreat. Now and again, sitting in my bedroom recliner with a cold diet coke in my hand and a computer on my lap helps me get everything off my mind. You see, a pair of ear buds and an amazon prime video opens an ingress into my mind, catches my interest by the imaginary, then locks the door behind it for a couple of hours. A few days ago I passed through that door with a movie containing an outstanding plot. I was captivated for 126 minutes.

There was a line delivered by an exceptional, worn-out novelist who, because of the deep hurts of life, had vowed to himself he’d never write another book. In spite of everything and everyone moving against his wishes begging him to write again, he finds a quiet place, lays down on a rock beside a small lake, and looking up into the clouds and beyond into the ubiquitous blue, utters a line that captivated my thoughts. I have meditated on it almost every day since. It said so much to me on a deep emotive level, I’ve even considered writing a book with the line as its title.

“THE YEARS SAY WHAT THE DAYS NEVER KNEW!”

 Last Sunday after church, the family, all 22 of us gathered at my youngest daughter’s house to celebrate my grandson’s 6th birthday. It was awesome. During the cacophony of fun and laughter I found myself alone with just my thoughts in the middle of it all. I was looking at each person, individually, marveling how God was working or had worked in each life. 

I harkened back to the time when I was there the day each of our three came into this world. I remembered the day I was in the fathers’ waiting room while my first two were being born. I thought about the day I was in the delivery room and watched my youngest as she fought through the birth canal. I remembered the day of all their graduations. I recalled the day when each of my three children found their perfect mate. I officiated on the day they recited their marriage vows.

I watched each of the twelve grandchildren as they interacted with one another. Except for one, I was there the day they were born. Now, beautiful children, with four having graduated from high school, each with top honors! And I recalled the day each graduated.

When these events were occurring in real time the individual days stood alone, filled with the wonder of what was unfolding in front of me at that particular time. Like the beautiful brush strokes of a great painting, or the emotions brought to the surface by the lyrics and melody of a classic song, we find ourselves stuck in the moment. We remain in the moment squeezing every emotion out of it hoping we might see it or hear it once more. Not knowing if we will experience it again keeps us fixed in that moment until another day comes with another thrill to supplant the former experience. And like a Romantic period work of art painted by an Impressionist artist, the pure becomes a blur. If we haven’t taken time to write the experiences of that day in a journal, they could be blurred forever.

But are they really gone forever?

I took notice of my three children. They all have successful marriages. My oldest and youngest work in the medical field: the first a Medical Transcriptionist with a Pharmacy Tech degree, and the last a Registered Nurse. People don’t feel so good without them.  My middle child is a Cosmetologist. People don’t look so good without her. But more than that, their characters are stellar. They have unusual wisdom when it comes to life and the raising of their children. They serve God with a willing servant heart.

I noted how time had shaped and prepared each. Over the years through the ups and downs of endurance, they have grown into kind, courageous people. The days we experienced together so long ago have now passed. If it weren’t for photos and videos, most would be forgotten because hardly without notice, one day does not communicate with the next or the next.  Days would become crippled by a stalking dementia, if it weren’t for the years.

With a loud, off-key happy birthday being sung, and the rustle of wrapping paper being torn to shreds, followed by gasps and awes at first sight of each gift, I stopped… allowing my eyes to move slowly around that long dinner table.  I ardently eavesdropped on the moment. Over the noise of the celebration, with my impassioned hands imperceptibly cupped behind my ears, I was listening to “the years say what the days never knew!”