If I owned time I think I would keep it in a vault, like cigars with temperature controls and precise humidity levels so it would stay fresh, just like new.
Oh, I know that no one can own all of time, like no one can own every building in the world. We have to share. I know that a small piece of time would have to be good enough for me.
If I owned a piece of time that I could be with whenever I wanted, we would play together maybe sing, maybe build snowmen, maybe dance. I would never bruise it with yelling or fear. And I would be very careful; not to irritate it with the caustic fumes of burnt cake.
Oh well, this fantasy is too silly. I own no time at all. I can’t even capture a second in my jar. All I can ever hope for is to be able to borrow some from the Time-Maker who owns it all because He concocted it all with His big whirling planets in the enormous sky of lights. Maybe, He would lend me some time.
If I could borrow a piece of time, which is all I can ever hope for I would borrow Lent. I love the way I can step into Lent and everything becomes different like suddenly I’m on another planet where the air is cleaner and quieter and deeper.
Lent feels wide because it is so empty. It feels like the seashore in the winter. When I stroll down the long Lenten shore, wrapped in fur I find treasures in the sand, diamonds, sapphires and rubies, little bits of starlight. When I pick them up and put them in my pocket I am suddenly lighter and brighter! It’s glorious!
I wish I could borrow Lent at the Library and renew it before I had to give it back. I wish I could borrow Lent in bleak November or sultry July when my feet are stuck in mud. But I can’t. Nope. The Time-Maker says Lent is only available on the day Jesus enters the desert to pray for 40 days and it must end when He returns from death. Jesus won’t do that every day. Jesus’ journey forms the magical transforming landscape of Lent. He left those jewels on the Lenten beach for us to find. How they glisten and calm frigid air.
Oh no, I can’t even borrow Lent. It won’t budge for me to lift it into September or December, or in my pocket. Lent won’t move so I must wait patiently for Lent to borrow me.