In fact, I almost arrived late to that event, the doctor having assured Mom I would make my appearance that particular day and me complying by a mere 15 minutes before the calendar would have proven him wrong.
My regular seat at the back of the church is due mostly to my tendency to arrive after the opening prayer. My family chooses to forgive my predictable delays, and I am grateful. Friends have learned that I honestly mean no disrespect. It's just that Time and I don't see things eye-to-eye, and I take the blame for that.
You see, in some deep corner of my psyche I am convinced that Time is elastic.
Not that it can be shifted like Daylight Savings (a gripe for a different day.) I mean that it can stretch like a suitcase and if I bounce on it just a little bit, more will fit inside.
- Over to my parents' house in 20 minutes: no problem! Rush-hour traffic will part like the Red Sea for me, right?
- Christmas shopping in one afternoon: why, of course! Surely, packages will jump off shelves and into my cart.
- Jobs for three different clients, my professional association's newsletter, a 30-minute mentoring phone call and five emails, in six hours: I can do it! And later as I clear three plates, five spoons, two empty yogurt cups, a fork and a half-dozen glasses off my desk, trying to remember the last time I ate an actual meal, I realize – no, I can't.
I still believe that Time is elastic. Why else did it stand gaping and still in the hour of my greatest loss, but whoosh dizzily past when my children grew up? What I've come to (grudgingly) acknowledge, instead, is that I don't have the power to stretch it.
And so we come to Lent. Unlike other times in the church calendar when we celebrate Occasions, Lent is all about facing myself. It shines an unblinking spotlight on the one person over whose choices and attitudes I have God-given control. And it reminds me that the privilege of control is matched by the responsibility to be accountable.
So while it may seem silly, my Lenten sacrifice this year is electronic games. Be they on my phone, my computer or otherwise, they're off limits for 40 days. The sacrifice isn't really about the games, of course. It's about the Time they represent. A few more moments to read a truly good book. Or clean out that cupboard under the sink - the one I don't open because stuff will fall out. It's a pocket of Time in which to stop on my walk and watch the pair of redbirds near the pond.
After Easter - if my Angry Birds haven't destroyed Farmville and scrambled the Word Jumble while I'm gone - I'll take a little Time to play again.
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