The Hourglass

"Lydia! Come see what I've got!"

Lydia ran to the front door where her father was taking off his coat. There was a package on the table beside him, lightly dusted with snow. He smiled at her. "What is it? What is it?" she asked, hopping from foot to foot with impatience.

Carefully he unwrapped it as she watched. She'd never seen anything like it before: a polished wooden case holding a strange glass bottle.

"It's so pretty. What is it? What's it do?" she asked, leaning close to peer at the white sand inside. He smiled. "It's an hourglass. An old way of keeping time. Isn't it wonderful?"

There were words carved in flowing script on the case. She traced them with her finger. "What does it say?" she asked.

"It says 'Tempus fugit'", he answered. "Time Flies."

Slowly he turned it over and set it down. Together they stood and watched as the sand began to fall in a thin, steady stream. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"But what does it mean?" she asked. He leaned forward and touched the top, full of sand. "Here is the future, the time yet to come." He touched the bottom. "There is the time that's gone by. But all we have - all we have is this -" he pointed to the narrow neck, where the sand was slipping through. "This is where we are, right now. Time is always slipping by. It's up to us what we do with our time. It's up to us to use it well."

She watched it awhile, then wandered off to play. But later, running by, she saw the top was almost empty. "Daddy, come quick!" He walked over. "What happens when it's all gone? Can you start it again?"

But he shook his head. Together they watched the last grains of sand slide down, until they were all done and the glass was empty.

It became a ritual between them, one she never tired of. The hourglass sat in a place of honor on the shelf in his study. When she asked, he'd take it down and set it on the desk. "Ready?" he'd ask. She would nod, and he'd turn it over, and they'd watch as the sand began to fall.

She had a desk of her own in the corner, and from time to time she'd look up from her book and watch as the grains sifted down. Such a thin stream, almost too small to see, but every time she looked up, the hourglass would have changed, until there was only a little left. Then the last grain of sand would trickle down, and it was over. Sometimes he would stop his work and watch with her. But he never turned it over. "Just the once," he would say quietly. "That's all we get." And the hourglass would go back up on the shelf.

Time passed, the days slipped by, and now she was older, busy in school with her studies and friends. Grades and tests, dates and worries; sometimes, hurrying, shrugging on her coat and gathering up her books, she would sigh in frustration. Walking past, he'd pause and pat her on the shoulder. "Take a breath. Remember the hourglass? You only have right now. Slow down a little and savor it. Live it well."

More time, more sand through the hourglass, and now she was a young woman living on her own, learning to travel the roads and ways of adulthood. Her father was thinner, more frail, and when she was home to visit sometimes she would take the hourglass down herself and set it on the desk. They'd watch together for a while, and then she'd hurry off. Busy, she'd forget to watch, only to look again and find it empty.

The sands slipped by, and the day came when her father lay in bed, his limbs heavy with pain. Every breath was an effort now. He had asked for the hourglass to be set by his bedside. Sometimes he would ask her to turn it for him, and he'd watch it. When the last grains of sand trickled through, he'd close his eyes.

On the last night he said something, so softly she couldn't hear. "What?" Wiping her eyes, she leaned close to hear. She caught only a few words as he whispered: "sand...life... gift..." And then he was gone.

The hourglass sits on a shelf in her home now, next to a photograph of her father. Sometimes she takes it down and turns it over, watching the sand falling in its long, thin stream. She puts her arm around her young son, and they watch together.

She would point to that narrow neck, where the thin stream of sand flows, and say to him: "See that? That's now. Now is all we have."

Every one of us has our own time, slipping away bit by bit, grain by grain, second by second. All we have is this moment. Savor this day: this breath you're taking just now, your food as you eat, the world you move through. Love the people in your life, and hold onto this moment for the gift it is.

Time flies, and all we have is now. Live it well.