The hour is a mystery

As I was bounding down the stairs in my in-laws' house thinking that I was late to meet with their pastor, their grandfather clock chimed five times. Those five chimes indicated that it was the hour of five; I checked my watch, which told me that local time in St. Louis was actually 8:45AM. I still had 15 minutes to make it to the church to meet with the pastor. The grandfather clock could tell me the quarter hour, but not the actual time itself.

The concept of time hadn't really registered over the past few days. Much of the days have been more task-oriented as opposed to time-oriented. The concept of time has focused on arrivals and completions. Time has been doled out in increments to orient ourselves to and for particular actions.

Making sure my father-in-law is comfortable.

Making sure that medications are given in a timely manner.

Making sure that the appropriate number of hours have passed with the arrival of the home health care aids, who have been absolute gifts from God.

Making sure that my mother-in-law makes it to her health appointments.

But in the day-to-day, many in my in-laws' house found themselves restless. My sister-in-law and her husband would find themselves awake at ridiculously early hours. I would find that I couldn't go to sleep even though my body was trying to tell my brain that it was exhausted, but yet there was time and energy enough to write. My mother-in-law would awake with the arrival of the home health care aid who would arrive in the extremely early morning hours.

The five chimes of the grandfather clock that morning told me that time was a relative concept. It was able to chime on every quarter hour; anyone in the house could tell time in fifteen minute increments if they heard the clock. Only the hour remained a mystery.

Time has made less and less sense. I feel like I have been catapulted into the previous year, being told that my father's cancer has invaded that tender space of the abdomen, the space where the body takes in and processes nourishment. But I thought, my father already died from this, why are you telling me again? I had to look at my watch and realize that it is indeed 2016 and not 2015. I had to realize that the diagnosis was not just tied to my father, but now also my father-in-law. I have to look in the hospital bed and realize that it's not my father, but my spouse's father.

Time doesn't really make sense; not only the hour, but even the year seem a mystery to me. It's as if someone hit a "rewind" button on the tape player of my life, and somehow, it has rewound itself to the previous year but in an alternate universe. Getting ready for a synod assembly not immediately close to home. Anxious with anticipation about the news contained in the next phone call. Not knowing if there is enough time to make arrangements for a last-minute flight to a destination that is not just a couple of thousand miles away, but that seems to be of another space, another point in history.

The concept of time contained and ordered... Not like real life.

There was usually one amazing marker of time, an achievement to be unlocked: the arrival of the next day. No one in my in-laws' house may have been aware of the actual date or the day of the week, but everyone was aware when a new day arrived. Everyone was somehow aware of that new day when we would wake up, tentatively look down and delicately tip-toe down the stairs into the living room, and to see my father-in-law looking back at us, breathing, comfortable, and alive.

The hour continues to remain a mystery.