Time seems to fold in upon itself

Time seems to fold in upon itself.

It felt like it took the work of a small army to get my father-in-law out of the hospital and back home under home hospice care. There was a very orderly and regimented schedule that occurred yesterday. Members of the family divided and conquered the list of tasks that needed to be completed.

Like getting my mother-in-law to her designated appointments.

Or receiving the hospital equipment at the house.

And coordinating with the doctors and nurses at the hospital to make sure that my father-in-law’s transport would take place in a timely manner.

Then being at the house to receive the initial delivery of prescriptions.

And timing the arrivals and departures of the nurses and home health aides.

Time has now shifted. Instead of shuttling back and forth to the hospital, we’re all now gathered at the home of my in-laws. We’re trying to find new rhythms of medication schedules, nurse and health aide rotations, prescription deliveries, visits from friends and family, generous food deliveries so we don’t have to take time to prepare meals, and waiting. We’re gathered at the house finding things to do in the meantime, because we’re simply sitting and waiting for what will come to pass. We’ve set the table well before mealtime. We’re outside trimming the hedges. I spend my time writing obsessively. We’re finding ways to fill the time, because watching and waiting is twisting and wrenching our hearts. If we stop to watch and wait, I fear our hearts may be obliterated.

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.

I feel as if I’ve been here before. Holding vigil. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that the inevitable will arrive. I have been here before. It hasn’t even been a year since I saw my own father slip from this side of the eschaton to the next. And between those moments of moving from one side of the line to the other, I remember finding ways to fill the time. Reading books. Singing hymns. Praying fiercely.

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.

The sacraments show me that time folds in upon itself. I was struck by this thought the day before my spouse’s father returned home from the hospital. The pastor who came to visit communed the family around the hospital bed. He then anointed my father-in-law’s forehead and proclaimed, “Child of God, you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.” Those words took me back to the previous week, a week of tongues of fire and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit, words I proclaimed in a sermon to the congregation I serve over two thousand miles away. Those words took me back to numerous times at a font, proclaimed at the baptism of babies and adults. Words proclaimed at death and resurrection. Words, water, and God’s promise proclaimed that tie us to Christ’s death and resurrection.

Sacraments are a way to recognize that time folds in upon itself, that they are a way of showing us God’s kairos time in the midst of the linear chaos of chronos time. The sacraments are a glimpse into God’s concept of time within our own concept of time. The sacraments give us a chance to see that God “is, was, and is to come.”  

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.

The sacraments connect us to what is, what was, and what is to come. Baptism and communion tie us to those who have died and to those communities who are to come. The most stark example of this is the half circle communion rail; as we commune on one side of the circle, the communion of the saints commune on the other side, literally and figuratively. At one point, we too will join in this holy communion of the saints. The sacraments show us that God’s grace abounds. The sacraments are always for us, ways for us to see that God’s kairos time breaks into our chronos time. The past, present, and future collide and intertwine in a trinitarian dance.

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Time seems to fold in upon itself.