I am continually running late, to my own dismay and that of the people around me.
No, that’s inaccurate. I am continually just in the nick of time for things. I’ll get to work two minutes before our morning meeting starts (at 9:30). I will underestimate my commute, though I have been making it for more than a year. My boyfriend texts me to say he’s in front of my building when he is five minutes away, so that I’m downstairs when he arrives.
I’ve tried everything: setting my watch fast, mentally setting my departure time ten minutes earlier than it needs to be, overestimating how long it will take me to cook dinner (go grocery shopping, do laundry, bike to church). During the two years my brother and I both attended Fresno State, my departure time — and subsequent excessive speeding on the freeway — drove him crazy. He’s always early for everything.
Oddly, or perhaps not odd at all, I find it much easier to manage time when I pray for help in that area. I obviously am incapable of handling it myself, and embracing that, rather than fighting it, seems to be the best answer. How does one harness time, after all?
When I don’t ask God’s help, though, He certainly has a sense of irony about it. Sometimes, like this morning, I will sprint two blocks in high heels and a dress, carrying a latte, to catch a bus whose timetable I looked up twenty minutes prior. I was headed to church.