Two months ago, I was asked to write an article here. Four weeks ago, I reminded myself to write it and submit it for review two weeks before the deadline. One week ago, I reminded myself that I should have done that the previous week. And tonight, I find myself wishing I wrote this two months ago and not the midnight before it was due. I can hear it in my mind: Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Time is a vicious thing.
In the beginning, time teases you with ideas of possibility. It gives you a sense of limitlessness by stretching out ahead of you into infiniteness, as though you have all the time in the world to do everything and anything your heart desires. However, as deadlines approach, time becomes your nemesis. It begins to mark the passage of wasted moments, delays, laziness, and unmet expectations. Time becomes this crushing force that binds you to the world, ticking relentlessly and leaving behind a trail of finite minutes you will never get back.
What makes time vicious is that you don’t even know it’s not your friend until its almost too late. You have all the time in the world right until you suddenly have none. This was the case three months ago when my mom was diagnosed with Stage III lung cancer – a challenging diagnosis but curable, filled with hope and possibility. Then last month the cancer was diagnosed as Stage IV, and suddenly I can see the deadline. I can hear it in my mind: Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Time is a vicious thing.
I assure you I’m not naive, I don’t think my parents will live forever, and it’s not as if I’ve never been confronted with the mortality of a loved one. No. I understand and have experienced both, but somehow this is different. It’s not a sudden death like a car accident or a heart attack. Rather, it’s the slow undoing of a strong, brilliant, faith-filled person right in front of my eyes. It's the idea of watching the strongest of us become weak, or the most fearless of us become scared. It's as if my mom is now beginning the process of canceling everything about the life she lived. It’s as if the diagnosis has made time speed up and slow down simultaneously.
Time is a vicious thing.
I relate this story to time because, when I was told of the diagnosis, all I could do was think back to all the times I had gotten into arguments with her. I remembered spending months and, in one instance, even a whole year without ever talking her. I thought of all the voicemails I hadn’t returned or the terse texts I had sent her. I even remembered the time I had wished I wasn’t her son. I hung up the phone, drove home, sat down, and began to grieve. Time had shown me what I had left behind: a trail of finite minutes I would never get back.
I know I haven’t talked about my faith or God yet – but I think that’s the point of my article. Time in itself is a vicious thing because time without God is just a meaningless clock ticking and tocking through our lives, marking its passage without prejudice. It is God who gives time a sense of limitlessness by stretching out ahead into infiniteness. Faith gives God’s time meaning because it is forward-looking and filled with possibility and hope, not chained to the past. God’s time gave me a space to forgive myself.
God’s time is a forgiving thing.
I earnestly reflected on my relationship with my mom and decided to accept the time we had as God’s time moving forward. I decided to use every opportunity to be with my mom as an opportunity for us to forgive each other for past moments when God had not been part of our time. I made it a point to drive the four hours to Fresno once a month to spend a week with her. I drove her to her chemo and radiation therapy appointments, spent nights in the hospital when she was sick, and set up a home office in her bedroom where she could stay connected with family and friends. I also started helping my dad around the house so he could spend more time with Mom too.
God’s time is a forgiving thing.
I spent more time with my mom in the past four months than I did in the previous ten years. As I watched her daily routine of prayer and receiving the Eucharist, her faith started to move me. Even as time went by and she became weaker and scared, her faith was constant. I realized that her fear was not related to her diagnosis but my personal faith life. Even when faced with her mortality she was concerned with my immortal soul. I felt drawn to join her in prayer and, in turn, to find a stronger connection with God through her and her illness. This was when I began the process of forgiving myself for creating distance between God and me.
God’s time is a forgiving thing.
In the past month, I have started to reach out to relatives and friends who have been important in my life but whom I haven’t seen in 10, 15, 20, and even 25 years, because I’m on God’s time. After the initial shock, all of them were happy to hear from me, and the awesome generosity and love I have received so far have overwhelmed me. I am now spending part of my time traveling around the U.S. and the Philippines, reconnecting with the people I love, using this time, God’s time, to forgive myself for allowing these relationships to fall by the wayside. My mom’s diagnosis opened me up to God’s time: a time to be intentional, forward-looking, a time to cherish those I loved. So I challenge you to see the world in God's time. To pick up the phone, write that email, send that text, do something and reach out to that one important person who always seems to be on your mind, but for some reason you never connect with – don't allow past excuses like it's been a while, it would only be too awkward, I wouldn’t know what to say, they may have forgotten me, or they will be angry it’s taken so long for me to call. I urge you to stop thinking about the past because the sudden viciousness of time will find you. Remember, our faith tells us we’re on God’s time and God’s time is a forgiving thing.
Roy Quinto