I’ve been thinking about time lately.
Maybe it’s because I’m standing at one of those thresholds in life, where one chapter is ending and another is waiting just beyond the horizon.
I’m in that in-between time, the kind of season that makes you look both ways before you cross.
Last week, I got my Aggie Ring. Here in Aggieland, that’s not just jewelry; it’s a rite of passage, a small circle of gold that says you’ve walked a long road and earned your place in the story. It’s strange how something so solid can mark something so fleeting, a moment that both arrives and disappears in the same breath.
My journey through the Bush School is coming to an end, and my journey with Shoe Leather Gospel is starting to ramp up. My son, Connor, is getting married in April. My daughter, Delaney, is finishing her degree at A&M in the spring.
Time is flying by.
But what is time? Really, have you ever tried to explain it? To put it into words without reducing it to a calendar square or a blinking digital clock?
We live on this spinning planet. One rotation of the Earth is a day. One orbit around the sun is a year. But that’s just our perspective, a creature’s way of keeping score. The universe is vast, and the measurement of time depends on where your feet are planted. A second here isn’t a second there. Time stretches, bends, and behaves differently the farther you move from home.
That’s the philosopher’s problem: time changes depending on the observer. Aristotle called it the measure of motion. Einstein called it the fourth dimension. Augustine said it exists in the mind, the memory of what was, the attention of what is, and the anticipation of what will be.
But the theologian sees something more.
Time isn’t just a measurement; it’s a miracle.
It’s the stage God built so His story could unfold.
Genesis begins with “In the beginning.” That phrase alone tells us that time itself had a birthday. Before creation, there was no “before.” Only God. He is eternal, not simply endless, but outside of the clock entirely. He doesn’t age, rush, or wait. All moments are equally present before Him.
Yet He stepped into time.
The infinite entered the finite.
Eternity put on a wristwatch and called Himself Emmanuel.
“In the fullness of time,” Paul writes, “God sent forth His Son.” That means every minute that passed from Eden to Bethlehem was measured by divine purpose. Time isn’t random; it’s redemptive. It moves with meaning, even when we can’t see where it’s headed.
And yet, from where we stand, time still feels slippery. We can’t slow it down or hold it still. The good moments race; the hard moments crawl. We count birthdays, anniversaries, and semesters as if keeping track might give us control. But the truth is, time isn’t ours to keep. It’s ours to steward.
Moses prayed, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Not because counting adds more years, but because it adds more meaning to the ones we already have. Time is not a possession to be managed; it’s a gift to be offered.
Maybe that’s why these in-between seasons stir something deep. They remind us that time is both a gift and a teacher, always passing, always pointing. Every sunrise whispers grace; every sunset reminds us this world is temporary.
Someday, Scripture says, time itself will end. “There will be no more delay.” The clock will stop because the story will be complete. But until then, we live in the tension between Eden and the New Jerusalem, between “In the beginning” and that unexplainable eternity still ahead.
So I go back to where my thoughts began. I look at my Aggie Ring and remember that daily countdown clock I had on my phone, how it marked every passing day until this moment arrived.
But that time is gone.
And maybe that’s the quiet answer to the question, What is time?
It’s not just what passes, but what is present.
It’s not something we capture, but something we inhabit.
So maybe the wisest thing we can do is simply treasure where our feet are.
Selah.
Walk it out.
