When Time Stands Still

 

The ancient Greeks had it right.  Their language was much more precise than our language.  They had three words for love.  Because they knew that love is too big for just one word. And they had two words for time.  Chronos and Kairos.

Chronos is, of course, chronological time, measured by the inevitable movement of the clock.  In my younger days, it was measured by the sweep of the hands, relentlessly moving around the clock face and ticking off the numbers that measure our lives.  Sometimes the hands seem to move too fast, as when you have a deadline.  Sometimes the hands creep by.  I’ve spent an eternity during the long hours in a hospital chair, waiting for the end of an endless night.  Or waiting in a sort of limbo, wishing for news but dreading what you might hear.  The other kind of time, Kairos, is an entirely different matter. 

My first introduction to the concept of Kairos as a child was my reading of A Wrinkle in Time.  I didn’t understand exactly what the author meant about her concept of time, not intellectually at least.  But, like most children, I had an instinctive understanding of what she was trying to say, not as science but as a place in my soul.  I knew what it was to ride my horse for hours at a time, not conscious of the passage of time, but truly present in doing what I loved to do.  I immersed myself in books, entering another world and becoming a part of that world, only emerging when the last page was turned. 

Watch a child at play, really lost in the moment, and you will see what Kairos looks like.  Watch a musician play his instrument, eyes closed and the notes pouring out of his heart, or an artist, when his brush tells a story and time stands still.  At its best, writing happens in Kairos, when words spill out of your fingers faster than you can type and an hour seems like moments. In Kairos we become what God calls us to be, almost touching creation, catching a glimpse of the veil between here and heaven.

I have experienced Kairos sitting by a campfire under the summer stars, beside a rocky stream.  Tales of the fish we would catch, or those who got away, remembrances of camping trips past and listening in silence to frogs croaking and the splash of fish surfacing for a midnight snack.  Or taking an unknown path to a mysterious location, wondering all the time what lies just around the next bend.

Then there are unhurried meals with family and friends, sitting around a crowded table, when the clock has no meaning, and a lunch hour sometimes stretches into two.  Sometimes Kairos happens when you meet new friends, friends you recognize as kindred spirits, when idle conversation turns into hours of catching up on lives spent just waiting to meet in person.

I find myself noticing this concept of time more and more these days.  I sit on a mossy rock in my garden of wildflowers and time passes without notice.  I attend a three hour concert so special that I’m not sure I even took a breath until the end, when I wished we could start over at the beginning and do it again.  I remember a tribute show for John Prine, when 3,000 fans breathed together and sang along with hearts full of gratitude for the songs he left us.   I sat next to a man I had never seen in my life, but felt I knew.  “Are you crying?” he asked me a couple of times, when the lyrics were more than I could bear.  “Yes,” I said, and he just nodded.  Chronological time meant nothing that night, and strangers became friends.

 I experience Kairos on my front porch, swinging gently in the morning sun or in the lazy afternoon, when work becomes unimportant and even the birds fall silent. 

Maybe my favorite time on the porch is in the evening, watching dusk turn to dark, witnessing the moon peer over the trees and the stars wink out of the clouds.  The Milky Way spills across the night sky and the North Star holds its steady position, ready to show travelers the way home. The fireflies, like stars raining out of the skies, the voice of the owls and the quiet snorts from the horses in the field wipe away the cares of the day.  There is no Chronos time there. 

Several generations have enjoyed this porch – I wonder if they felt the same timelessness as I feel.  I think my mama did, even if she didn't express it in that way. 

And I know the kids she babysat did, because they still share memories with me about the times they spent on that porch.  And now their own children are coming to visit and sit on this porch.

 

Alice’s sister and her family, my cousins from across the country, came for a visit, and we spent an entire afternoon on the front porch, trading memories and talking idly about everything from movies to dogs to biscuits with butter and sugar to the dangers of artificial intelligence to how we are all related.  We watched the birds at the feeder, marveling at the size of the resident woodpecker, and wondering where the hummingbirds are today. We discussed the taste of wood sorrel, the price of eggs and the hazards of gathering eggs as children.  We talked about when to plant corn, what kind of tomatoes are best and how to make cracklings at hog killing time.  We petted the dogs, who understand that time is not important at all, unless it’s time for dinner.  I marveled at the behavior of my dogs toward my cousin’s husband, who is in frail health.  Sophie and Scout stationed themselves on either side of him, watching with quiet eyes and encouraging him with gentle nudges to stroke their heads and rub their ears.  We talked about my sign, which advertises Porch Therapy.  “I don’t do anything,” I told them.  “You just sit here and work out your own problems.”

My young cousin (not all that young now, to my amazement, but younger than me) played with dogs, disappeared occasionally to help Clay work on the lawnmower in the back yard, and helped me feed the horses.  Every now and then someone would mention that it was probably time to go, but no one made a move toward the car.  Before we knew it, it was 6:00 and Alice’s husband had called to see where they were.  “We’re sitting on the porch,” she told him.  And that’s all that needed to be said. We were in an enchanted place, experiencing Kairos.  It was a wonderful afternoon.