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“Now that you’ll be changing schools next month, you’ll have to have a watch—make sure you’re on time for your classes,” said Mother, her gaze in the fitting room mirror studying my new uniform: the jewel neck blouse and blue jumper of the middle school. “We’ll pick up something simple before we leave the store. Now do hurry and get dressed. I’ve got to get home.”

That evening I traced my finger around the small gold-colored face of my first watch, its black cord fastened at my wrist. I felt grownup, yet challenged. I’d have to learn to be punctual. Heretofore, I’d moved whenever I was told to. I checked the time—Dad would be home soon, then supper.

And I did learn, and subsequently owned many watches, even a silver pocket watch when a nun in the 1960s.

With the onset of chronic illness and pain, however, keeping track of time became a nightmare—never was there enough of it. Efforts to control it worsened my symptoms. How I envied others’ knack to complete work projects in a timely manner.

With retirement, however, I befriended time; no longer was I subservient to a supervisor. For nineteen years my Timex watch tracked serious reading and writing within the solitude of my home; I relished every minute of it.

More than ever, I surrender the time remaining me to Precious God, one of whom scribes I’ve become. While I wait, I pray Mercy! over the intractable burnings around the globe, both internal and external.

 

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