Go Hug a Tree, it's Okay

More from Charles Spurgeon:

It is the mark of a feeble mind to despise the wonders of nature because we prize the treasures of salvation. He who built the lofty skies is as much our Father as he who hath spoken to us by his own Son, and we should reverently adore HIM who in creation decketh himself with majesty and excellency, even as in revelation HE arrayeth himself in glory and beauty.

Modern fanatics who profess to be so absorbed in heavenly things that they are blind to the most marvelous of Jehovah's handiwork, should go to school, with David as the schoolmaster, and learn to "consider the heavens," and should sit with Job upon the dunghill of their pride, while the Lord rehearses the thundering stanzas of creation's greatness, until they cry with the patriarch, "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth thee; wherefore, I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes." For our part, we feel that what was worth the Lord's making, richly deserves the attention of the most cultivated and purified intellect; and we think it blasphemy against God himself to speak slightingly of his universe, as if, forsooth, we poor puny mortals were too spiritual to be interested in that matchless architecture which made the morning stars sing together and caused the sons of God to shout for joy.

"As for man, his days are like grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. When the wind has passed over it, it is no more, and its place acknowledges it no longer. But the lovingkindness of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children's children, to those who keep His covenant and remember His precepts to do them."
-Psalm 103:15-18


It might just be time for me to slip a notepad in my back pocket and start tallying every common shoot-the-breeze conversation I have. I think the evidence would reveal more of them than I'd like to admit, and it would remind me that I stand among—not outside—the ranks of the common man.

Most people are aware that these autopilot mini-conversations are there, stocked up in the cerebrum, and we all employ them as lubricant in the social machine. We even poke fun at ourselves for some of them: "How about them Lakers," or "How about this weather." Others are not as obvious, and they drop from our lips so readily that we may never notice we're being unoriginal. During this past year of my life, one in particular has repeatedly muscled its way to the front of the line of conversation topics. In approximately nine out of seven days each week, I have the "time is flying" conversation. I had it yesterday with my boss while we snacked on cashews and tangerines between demolition and mixing concrete. We both couldn't believe how much work we had already performed on his house since I started there in February. Was this already the tenth week that I'd been working for him? Indeed, where has the time gone?

Later that night at my regular Tuesday gathering of other Christian men, I commented on how great it is that it's staying light out longer (another common conversation topic, or CCT for short). My friend replied that it will soon be warm enough to meet once again on the roof of the house where we gather. This primed me perfectly for the topic of Time, and I in turn said, "It seems like we were meeting on the roof just a month or two ago." It truly did. I didn't even have to close my eyes to feel like I was back on that rooftop. My skin recalled last summer's consistent warm breeze from the valley below. The memory of Trader Joe's lemonade flashed on my tongue as if I had just sipped it, sitting in a small circle on a soft blanket and discussing what we had read in our study. But that was all ten months ago.

How will I let this make me feel? Should I be glad for the sharp memory (a sign of youth) or sad that the years truly do seem to get exponentially faster (a sign of age). Annual Acceleration Syndrome was a sentiment I had always insisted I wouldn't let myself succumb to (that kind of thinking was only for youthless people who had given up and resigned at some point). Now, however, I am beginning to accept and have peace with it. As a practical explanation, it seems the more familiar you are with something, the more quickly your brain processes it, and the less energy it has to expend to understand it. This explains why a film always moves surprisingly faster the second time around. My 28th trip around the sun will be complete next month, and I find I am growing more familiar with life—more adept at its routines, ever strengthening my grasp of the seasons and seeing more clearly the cycles and predictable patterns of this earth and this life. As a result, Life gets processed more quickly. On top of that, the ever-increasing responsibilities of adulthood keep my minutes so full of activity and concern that the momentum carries me rapidly into the future. To be sure, there is still spontaneity and surprise in my life, and by no means has my joy decreased. If anything, I think my joy has grown as I have become more sober.

Life is short and, based on the pattern, I can guess that the last half of my life will pass by five times as quickly as the first. Were it not for the hope of Heaven, this news would interrupt any temporal happiness I ever found, like a cockroach in an ice cream sandwich. Thankfully, the Apostle Paul's oft-quoted words from his letter to the Philippians now serve here as anything but a shoot-the-breeze cliche. They are far more tangible to me than lemonade or soft blankets, and they offer the reason for my joy in light of this quickly fading life: "For to me to live is Christ, but to die is gain." No matter how long or short I perceive my life to feel, I rejoice that I can exhaust my earthly hours with holy passion and enjoy the fruits of this flash-bang life for Eternity. Yes, time flies, but I can be free from the fear that I haven't properly savored the year. So this is maturity.